The Serpent
by The Unholy Trio
Summary: Not everything concludes with the end of the world. Spurred by instinct, forced by guilt and driven by ambition, life continues for the rueful few who survived the apocalypse. AU, JillxWesker, JillxChris, mature content.
1. Chapter 1

**_"Through me you pass into the city of woe: _**  
**_Through me you pass into eternal pain: _**  
**_Through me among the people lost for aye. _**  
**_Justice the founder of my fabric moved: _**  
**_To rear me was the task of power divine, _**  
**_Supremest wisdom, and primeval love. _**  
**_Before me things create were none, save things _**  
**_Eternal, and eternal I shall endure. _**  
**_All hope abandon, ye who enter here." _**

**_- Canto III_**

* * *

Day 370

"There's no one left, Wesker. You killed them all."

Her voice was the only one he'd heard in months. It grated and burned.

"Give it up."

The bag of potato chips rustled obnoxiously as she dug through it. Nothing but crumbs and grease.

The blond in the driver's seat wrenched it from her hands and tossed it out of the open window.

She crossed her arms and watched the road.

* * *

Day 390

They stopped near a landfill. Binoculars passed between them. Shoulder to shoulder, he was much taller than her, although they were alike – ethereal, somehow _not belonging_.

They moved with the same assurance.

She seemed to be of him – like a rib, unbound.

"Can they…"

"Perhaps," he replied.

"I don't think so."

He nodded, thoughtful.

The creatures they were watching might be able to see them.

Wesker knew for sure when he and Jill were running down a mound of garbage, trailed by a Pack of Uroborii. Worms bloomed from them like flowers.

* * *

Day 400

She examined the scars on her chest in the mirror of the sun visor. Nimble little fingers touching pink and puckered skin.

She slammed the visor shut.

Anger renewed.

Wesker glanced at her, a pale eyebrow raised over the rim of his sunglasses.

"Don't. Fucking do not. Just… shut the fuck up before you even start."

He smiled at her fury, his leathered grip on the steering wheel loosening.

Her hand rubbed the scar where the chest plate had been. Tenderly, her fingertips moved to the younger scar on her wrist as she watched the New World pass by.

75 miles an hour at a time.

* * *

Day 423

There had been no one for days - weeks. Not even infected.

The forest was tall on either side of the car. It was raining – a fine cold mist. The air was heavy and chilly. The sky a morose white.

Eden, Oregon.

He pulled off the road at a mile marker, driving the car slowly into the woods, concealing it from view of the highway. Jill sat up in the seat, curious. Satisfied, Wesker turned the ignition. The engine cut. Keys in hand. Jill watched.

"You're going to get out now. I wouldn't want you doing anything… unsavory to yourself. Again."

Jill's jaw tightened noticeably at his attack. She bit back an insult and turned her wrists so that he couldn't see them. They burned with shame.

He walked around to the passenger's side, opened the door, and waited. He offered a hand to her. Jill didn't take it. She secretly pleased him with her tiny acts of defiance, her slights. She was hard to loathe when she had so much fight and _life_.

The trunk popped. Jill took what was left of her belongings. Wesker did the same.

He led the way as they walked some distance from the road. Jill looked back, the car disappearing from her line of vision. She liked to keep the car in her sights, especially these days.

"Where are we going?"

He did not respond and instead studied the compass in his hand.

She followed him.

She'd followed for years in much the same way – unanswered.

* * *

A short time later, Wesker was kicking at a mound of dirt. Eventually, he unearthed a handle. He pulled on it and a reinforced door, leading straight into the earth, opened before them. A ladder was attached to the sidewall of the tunnel.

Wesker threw down his suitcase and bag. She was skeptical though.

"Go on, Jill."

At his urging, she tossed hers down as well. She looked at him expectantly then.

"Ladies first."

He watched as she descended into the hole.

* * *

A generator came to life nearby. Lights flickered then stayed on. A lab.

Jill stood in the middle of the room and turned slowly.

"Abandoned," he said to her, travel bag hauled over a shoulder.

The Umbrella emblem was everywhere. It was surreal.

"Bunks down there, on the right. Shower on the left. Pantry at the end."

"What's on the other side?"

"A clinic. Triage."

"And the only way in or out is-"

"The way we came, yes."

It was the most he'd said to her in long time.

She almost enjoyed the sound of his voice.

* * *

She microwaved a Hot Pocket. Wesker catalogued vials. Various medications, chemicals, supplies.

The first bite burned her mouth. She frowned.

"This is… real. This is a real lab," she said. Sometimes, she missed talking.

"As opposed to?"

She ignored him. He held a smaller tube up to the fluorescent light and shook it. The contents mixed, changed color. Sunglasses off. Eyes glittering unnaturally. He put a name to it on his list and moved to the next batch of preserved vials.

"You'll be able to do everything here. All the research." She pried. It tested his patience.

"Enough, Jill."

She was used to his brush-offs. They were hardly personal now. She sat in the rolling chair and watched him work.

Broccoli, cheese and ham on a rainy day wasn't the worst she could do. Not by a long shot.

* * *

While she slept that night, he wrote in a journal. He wrote many things.

He detailed how he'd set into motion a biological apocalypse. Uroboros = Success. He failed the original operative in Africa, but his subsequent slow-release in the States proved fruitful. It spread like wildfire. Within a year, all were infected (_worldwide_). He and Jill went into hiding. Evaded danger for the most part. When Jill had become compliant, he removed the P30 chest plate. Occasional injections were still required when she was… rebellious (_self-injury, panic attacks,_ _hallucinations,_ _suicide attempt_). He wrote that part in parenthesis. It aroused feelings of embarrassment in him.

He did not like empathy. It was so wasteful.

He wrote objectively. Scientifically. Clinically.

He did not write about how he _felt_.

He was to be a god. He did not consider that there would be no one to be a god to.

He was unhappy. More so than usual.

He had falsely imagined some would survive. Re-population would be difficult now.

He rolled the vial between his fingers, writing with the other hand. He set it upright. Stared at the label.

_**Novarel**__. Human Chorionic Gonadotropin. _

"As a last resort, I will begin the project with J.V." read the final line of the first entry.

* * *

**_"Mingled are they with that caitiff choir of the angels, who were not rebels, nor were faithful to God, but were for themselves. _**

**_The heavens chased them out in order to be not less beautiful, _**

**_nor doth the depth of Hell receive them, because the damned would have some glory from them."_**

**_- Canto III_**


	2. Chapter 2

"On a large enough time line, the survival rate for everyone will drop to zero."

- Chuck Palaniuk_  
_

_

* * *

_

Day 34

Blood. There was never any blood.

The black scum was all that lined the walls – a crude painting of darkness. No screams, no bodies – silence. She wasn't used to this. She could deal with maimed corpses lying around, and blood from the floor to the ceiling. But this? No. This scared her. How did they devour their prey? Whole?

She let a shudder pass through her as she stepped into the room.

Sunlight streamed in through a broken window, the rays reflecting off the glass that was sprinkled on the floor like glitter. It almost gave the room a peaceful atmosphere, but she knew never to trust anything as innocent as lighting.

The carpet was hard and was beginning to form a dark, drying coat. Which, if disturbed, would break up and flake. It made her think of dandruff.

The smell had to have been the worse thing she was having to contend with right now, though. God, the smell. If not prepared for it, it could certainly make the head spin. Rotten flesh. Burning bodies. Blood. The sulfurous odor of sewers.

And that was only about half of what it smelled like.

She covered her nose; he wouldn't come in at all.

"Hurry up!" she heard him hiss from the next room, sounding genuinely irritated. He was probably nursing a nasty headache by now.

She took her sweet time.

She approached the bed that was lying askew, quite literally turned up on its side and laying haphazardly against the wall. The sheets had been torn from it and were laying in a crumpled heap on the floor. The blankets had been tossed aside, near the bathroom door. She didn't want to think about what might be lurking in there.

The walls and ceiling had once been white – like the carpet – but were now dripping with a black veil of slime. She moved around a fallen pillow that had been torn in half, the stuffing scattered around the room like flower petals – some particles were even still floating in the air. How long ago did this attack happen?

It didn't matter, they always moved on right after. Always hungry. Always searching.

She came to a nightstand, reaching down and pull open the drawer at the top. It was covered with the slime, her palms sticking to the handle as she tried to wrench the drawer open. The damn stuff was notorious for being vicious as hell. Almost adhesive. Did they use that to trap their victims? She didn't want to know.

It stretched once she managed to pry the drawer open, coming back with her hand – begging her not to go. She shook it ferociously until it snapped, and wiped it on the carpet. Disgusting. She began to rummage through the drawer with her other hand, holding her breath.

"Jill, I said _hurry up._" She jumped at the proximity of his voice, spinning around to see him holding himself up in the doorway. His sunglasses were tilted down far enough so that his serpentine eyes were revealed. He looked pissed off, and like he could use an Aleeve.

Something unwound within her.

_Beautiful. _

She ignored the comment.

Without looking at him, she reached down into the drawer and held up a pair of car keys high enough for him to see. She jingled them. His nostrils flared. His glare darkened.

"Patience is a virtue, Wesker."

* * *

Day -46

Back in America again. Straight through the airport – no questions asked.

The P30 eliminated any sense of common courtesy she possessed, and she shoved people out of the way with her shoulders if they happened to be blocking her path. She'd never been cursed at in public so much.

The terminal was congested with people – business men chatting on their phones, couples sleeping on benches or whispering about passerby, children running amok, parents simply watching.

Wesker was on his phone too, getting them a ride. They were dressed casually – no surprise. They couldn't be expected to waltz through airport security, she in a catsuit and Wesker in shrapnel-deflecting leather. No, even he was more understated than that.

He was wearing a dark dress shirt - sleeves rolled up to his elbows, exposing smooth, muscled forearms - a matching tie, a pair of perfectly pressed slacks, and meticulously shined shoes. He got quite a few admiring stares from the women around him – seeking another patron for their compulsive infidelity. That something inside her coiled tight with jealousy; this was not outwardly reflected. It never was.

She wore a butter-yellow summer dress – one of Excella's cast-offs. She had never liked that arrogant bitch, and now she was being forced to wear her shitty hand-me-downs. The fact that she was dead didn't help the cause – Jill felt haunted through wearing it. Wesker had emphasized that Excella wouldn't be needing it anymore. Gee, Wesker, thanks for the heads-up. It wasn't as if she hadn't watched him inject her, _destroy her_. She shivered at the memory. The detached expression on his face as he watched his lover sink to her knees… Cry for him. Beg for mercy.

He never glanced back as they walked through the terminals, not once, because he knew she would never be far behind him.

He had doped her up right before they got off the plane, dragging her to the bathroom and forcing her inside. The flight attendants hadn't even tried to stop him – Tricell employees. They knew who Wesker was, and how he needed to be accommodated. She hated being close to him, and being stuck in an airplane bathroom with him violated all laws of personal space she once had.

She brought a knee up, tried to nail him where it counted, her hands like the claws of a wildcat, tearing at his chest. It was hard to do damage at such close proximity; it reduced her to fighting like a _girl_. Before she could really put up a fuss, his fingers were digging into her cheeks and forcing her head back against the wall. He had managed to catch both of her wrists in one hand and was squeezing them so hard she could _feel_ the bruises forming. He worked his hips between her legs and leaned against the wall, pinning her there. Her thighs forced to wrap around him in the tight space.

The position gave them both pause. Their eyes met and the air suddenly felt more… charged.

His hand slipped from her face to press against the wall, using his forearm to keep her head back as he held her there for a while – waiting until she calmed in his grasp. An exhausted little beast.

"I'm sorry, Jill, but you can't be trusted in public areas."

He was grinning. She didn't say anything, raising her eyes to the ceiling and choosing to look there instead of his face. She gave up. Mentally, physically, emotionally.

He let go of her wrists slowly; perfect, burning prints of his fingers lingering there. She wished she could report his abuse. She had a good 3 years worth she could tell "them" about. The thought made her lips twitch.

She didn't know where he had been hiding the syringe. He put it against her neck but did not pierce the skin - tracing a throbbing vein with the needle.

"Any last words?"

She met his gaze again. That grin infuriated her.

_"Fuck. You."_

_

* * *

_

Day 165

She was done.

The bloody, broken glass slipped from her fingers and clattered to the floor. The clean slices in her wrists were weeping. There was blood everywhere, and her only conscious thought was, _"Is it deep enough?"_

Her back against the wall, she slid to the floor, staring down at her hands as the feeling began to ebb away. The pain was of no concern to her. The barrage of her turbulent inner emotions were draining out, washing away with the blood leaking from her wrists.

_He won't let you die._

A dark warning. There was a desperation in it that caught her attention, and made her smile.

_You can't get away this easily._

Her laugh was hoarse.

_You are not meant to play God._

"Watch me."

_Fool. _The snarl was angry, but she couldn't bring herself to care. Her head lolled, feeling light, and she collapsed. She was too busy trying to drown in a puddle of her own blood to care about anything.

He burst in then, drawn by the scent. His nostrils were flared, and he almost froze in the doorway when he spotted her.

Her eyes were nearly closed. She felt so tired. So cold. Finally, she could be done with this place.

With him.

His hands felt burning hot against her skin, and she let out a small groan of protest but was too weak to move away. He lifted her up in his arms none too gently and rushed out of the bathroom. They had been squatting in a hotel, and he had stepped out for something. She couldn't quite remember what it was now.

While he was gone the last of the P30 in her system for the day had been metabolized by her body – bad things usually followed a crash. Driven down from her high, she became weak, her emotions twisting around one another in their confusion – leaving her distressed and panicked. Shaking, drenched in sweat, she had sat on the bed with her head in her hands. Right then, she looked upon her situation, and realized – with horror – that she was giving up. She was relinquishing herself to him willingly. And God damn it, she wasn't going to let that just _happen_.

She rushed to the bathroom, staring at her reflection as tears streamed from her eyes and over her cheeks. With a scream she punched the mirror, shattering it easily. She hated the image that stared back at her. It didn't even look like her anymore.

She stood there trembling, blood already beginning to well up in the cuts on her knuckles.

Taking up a shard of the broken glass, she leaned against the wall and turned over the opposite arm. Staring at the skin on her wrist now with uncertainty. Could she do it?

She would have preferred a gun.

Beggars can't be choosers.

* * *

Day 167

She awoke on the hotel bed. The sheets were drenched in dry, crusty blood. There were bandages on her wrists.

She was alive.

She was still weak, her body trying to recover from the tremendous blood-loss. She didn't have the strength to try _that_ again, but she didn't want to live either. Why couldn't he just let her put herself out of her misery? What stock did he have in her anyway? _What did he care?_

Her hands curled into fists, pulling up the fabric of the sheets. One failed attempt after another.

He had spared her _again_.

Tears spilled from her eyes, and she couldn't even lift an arm to wipe them away. She sobbed loudly, allowing herself to cry as hard as she needed to, ignoring the fact that he hovered in the corner like a vulture. She could sense the waves of anger still rolling off him. But she didn't care.

He ended up informing her later that he had injected her with a ridiculous amount of P30 to promote rapid recovery. He did what he could to mend the lacerations. It wasn't pretty – he was no surgeon. She was also going to have scars there for the rest of her life.

He told her that she deserved them.

How many more would she be forced to wear before her time was up?

He didn't speak to her for days.

* * *

Day -31

Stuck in a Tricell lab. Less and less P30. Less and less of Wesker.

Depression. Isolation.

She knew what he was doing. She could hear their screams – the sick sounds of flesh being torn from the bone, of pustules devouring any and everything they came across. She went there sometimes and watched him. He rarely spoke to her. Mostly just to give orders, or chastise her.

He was resurrecting Uroboros.

_Go to him. _

No. She wouldn't going to go crawling after him in desperate need of companionship.

She found herself standing in the room not two hours later. She was leaning against the wall while he hunched over a desk, frequently switching between a journal under his right hand and a microscope near his left. The room itself was a balcony guarded by heavy glass windows on all sides, jutting out into another room below. An observation room, if you will. Below, a product of Uroboros lumbered around in circles, occasionally raising its head and letting out a gurgling scream.

She knew what he was doing, yet that thing inside her compelled her to ask anyway, "What are you doing?"

He paused for a moment, turning to fix her with one cat-like eye from over his shoulder.

"Finishing what I started."

"And what exactly is that?"

He perked a brow. This is the longest they'd spoken in weeks. He suddenly rose up from the chair and opened a drawer in the desk, roaming around inside before pulling out something she couldn't see. She felt herself tense as he silently walked over to her, standing right in front of her and staring down at her. His face seemed almost naked without his sunglasses, but she defiantly stared back at him.

_Closer. Don't struggle._

She inhaled sharply, pushing away the husky purr from her mind. No. She wasn't going to lose herself when he was around.

He leaned close, his hot breath tickling her ear. She shrank back against the wall, digging her nails into the palm of her hand as he reached up and tugged down the collar of her turtle neck. Something cold pressed up against her warm skin and she shivered.

"You'll find out soon enough."

There was the familiar sting of a needle, she gasped but didn't fight. She knew what it was. And she'd be damned if she ever admitted that she almost felt lost without it now. The familiar rush of strength and clarity came first, her eyesight more sharp and clear than ever before. Empowered.

"Now, run along and don't come back in here unless I come and retrieve you myself," He said, tossing the syringe in the bin, not watching as she turned on her heel and marched out. A drone. Mindless.

Chained.

* * *

Day 1

They dragged the first victim into an alley, making quick work of him. Injecting him and tossing him back out onto the street. He wouldn't be human for much longer.

It had begun.

* * *

Day 2 

"_Hundreds admitted into hospitals complaining of severe stomach pains. Dozens have already died and others..."_

It was in the news. No one knew how to explain it. They'd be roaming the streets soon.

They were at the airport again. Tricell-owned, Tricell-operated. They didn't do a thing as innocent people were dragged off, infected, and then returned. They didn't know what was happening. They did know that the horrible pain in their stomachs wasn't normal.

Still, they got on the plane.

It spread.

* * *

Day 0

He told her his plans, told her why it will be successful. She could only stare.

Uroboros had mutated after it ate through several thousand hosts. It was free. It could take at will. Bodily fluids now, just like the T-virus. It was déjà vu.

They could work as a collective, hunt down their prey in packs. They could _think_.

She jumped from her seat, quivering, angry.

"How the hell is that going to complete your vision of _utopia_?" Her voice was rough with disuse, the increased volume scratching at her throat. He regarded her calmly. He always did. The voice of unreason.

"It will spread more quickly and sort out who is worthy and who is no-"

"No, it _won't_! Think about what you're doing! It's going to kill _everyone_! How many subjects have been successful in bonding with it?" she snarled, palm coming to slam down on the table. She'd glared, grew wild with rage. He narrowed his eyes, annoyed by her outburst, her questioning. Yes. That was what she wanted. To get under his skin.

"None," he answered curtly, a lofty air hanging about him like a plague. Arrogant bastard.

"Then what the _fuck-_," She leaned over the table hands flat against the surface, "makes you think it's going to work on anyone else?"

"There are exceptions to every disease. Those that are immune, saved… There _will_ be survivors, Jill. And we will unite with them – the chosen."

She let out a frustrated cry, throwing her hands up in the air and kicking her chair, knocking it to the floor. His rhetoric, his propaganda, drove her to the brink of madness. He merely watched her lose her mind, lips turning up to a smirk. She ran her fingers through her hair, refusing to look at him.

"Please," she moaned, at the point of begging, "Don't do this."

She was broken, desperate. She heard his chair screech as he got up, moving toward the door without passing her. He paused, tilting his head in a contemplative manner before wrapping his fingers around the knob and turning it.

"Be sure to change your clothes tonight, we start tomorrow."

With that, he was gone.

She broke one of her knuckles on the wall. And then she cried.

It was over.

* * *

"This was freedom. Losing all hope was freedom."

-Chuck Palaniuk_  
_


	3. Chapter 3

**We are the fools of Time and Terror: Days  
steal on us, and steal from us; yet we live,  
Loathing our life, and dreading still to die. **

**- Lord Byron**

* * *

The flames licked. Red hot and c_hilling._ Nothing gave him warmth these days. He could hold his hand in the fire and not feel anything.

Twigs snapped as he set the pot on top. God, he couldn't stand canned food anymore. Today's meal was tomato soup – sell-by date: six months ago. It didn't look good, but he'd seen worse. He shook it wildly, hoping to mix the tomato preserves and the oily base enough to convince himself it was _okay_.

"It's disgusting."

Claire was somewhere in the darkness, the shadows projecting grotesque images on her face. She was out of his sight. She rarely ate.

"What's _not_ disgusting?"

He snorted. But tomorrow evening he would drool at the thought of the soup. Tomorrow evening, nothing was going to boil on that fire.

"You need to stock up," Claire pressed. "You'll look like them soon. Like a zombie. Remember?"

They both laughed, but Chris' voice was hoarse and he ended with a wet cough. Zombies. That was before the infection. Before Africa. Before the end of the world. Good times to think back on. The memories faded more with every attempt to recall them.

* * *

He had not only run out of food, but medication too. Rain had drenched him two weeks before, while on the run. He'd been sick ever since. No amount of Nyquil could intimidate that hacking cough. His body was starting to suffer under it – back muscles strained, ribs throbbing, stomach aching from exertion. Sometimes, he threw up after particularly violent fits. Warning: immediate intervention required.

* * *

Claire was gone that night, to get him something. He couldn't quite remember what.

She'd just walked off.

The fever left him nearly dead. He shivered, no matter how close to the fire he lay. The flames died some time during his dozing. He forgot to put on logs. He couldn't manage to even put on logs.

Claire came back, empty-handed, and watched him from the other side of the ash.

* * *

Back in Africa, when the world was just starting to slide into disorder, Chris held Sheva Alomar's fragile form in his arms while he watched the blood pool beneath her. What he regretted most was that he hadn't said a word. All the while he held her in silence. Even when the spasms started. And when they ended. And so long after.

* * *

Of course there were the consequences of the infection (humanity eradicated, Uroboros prevailing, no sleep, no safety) but Chris liked to stay optimistic. Buildings were destroyed, cars were crashed. Dried blood outlined most prior-populated areas, the only reminder of screaming children as the virus ate through their bodies.

But they left behind food and clothes and ammunition. He had all the resources in the world. He just had no one to share them with. Apart from Claire. But she so seldom needed anything these days.

* * *

Chris's last car had run out of fuel three days ago and it wasn't worth taking the risk to visit the gas station in the city. Visiting the city was never worth the risk. Only when family was involved.

He'd done it for Claire before. He'd do it again. Anything for his kin.

* * *

His reflection stung. Not only the shards of mirror that dug into his skin as he trailed his fingers over the distorted image in the cracked glass. It was the _eyes_ that stared back at him. Red-rimmed eyes. Tired eyes. So very empty.

_Weary_.

_Dead._

Claire was behind him.

"You holding up, big bro?"

He punched the mirror, shattering it, and the reflection crumbled. He didn't look back as he searched the rest of the house.

No food for days. He was starving. It felt as if his stomach was turning inside out. And Claire had the nerve to ask such stupid questions.

Uroboros had been here before them. There was blood on the walls of the bathroom. There was still water in the tub, churned with bloody remains. Entrails? It had turned into mucky soup of some poor bastard. Chris reached inside, immune to the feeling of disgust, and pulled the stopper.

The sickening stench of decay and rot wafted up to him. He had gotten so used to the smell of death that he barely noticed.

The drain gurgled. It drank the gore down greedily.

There was nothing left. Whoever had tried to hide from the virus had failed. There were abrasions on the sides of the tub. Someone had clawed for dear life in there. Futile. Nobody escaped.

When Uroboros knocked, it took no prisoners.

Chris knew that.

Knew that all too well.

* * *

_There will be no happy ending._

_

* * *

_

After Sheva bled no more, he left her. It was a cruel thing to do, but he had no choice. Death was creeping up behind him as he ran and in front of him was the Devil, unleashing apocalypse on earth.

All it took was one pull of the trigger. Chris cried as the rocket hit Wesker's stealth bomber. He cried for Sheva. And for Jill. And for everything he had lost to Wesker in the past ten years with no chance of getting it back.

Then he fled like an abused dog, tail between its legs. The BSAA sang his praises. Mere months later, Uroboros wiped out America. The virus was unimpressed by his medals.

* * *

In the day after the fever, Chris could not find the strength to get up. He stayed where he was. Tried to close his eyes and let go of life. Claire wouldn't let him. She woke him whenever he dozed off, kept him busy with conversation.

"Don't forget to get up tomorrow, dork." She smiled, tomboyish, trying to make it sound easy.

"You always say that. Before we go to sleep."

"Sure I do." She put a hand on her hip, tilted her head. "Would _you_ want to wake up alone in the morning?"

* * *

He tried to imagine it was chicken. It was too sinewy and dark to be chicken and it smelt of decay, but if he just believed hard enough, it _almost_ tasted like chicken.

He'd made sure to cook it thoroughly. Burn it until a black crust enveloped it. It would kill the virus. Fire was the only effective weapon. He'd only done it once before. Otherwise he never got close to the corpses. Back then, he had been starving. He would have eaten his own arm if he would have had the guts to hack it off.

Now the puckered meat lay in the hot embers, sweating the virus. He would not run the risk of getting infected. He would be sick again, praying to God for a quick end. But at least he wouldn't be dead, begging the Devil for his wretched soul.

* * *

They hunted in packs. That's what he called them: packs. When they were together, they shared a mind. He didn't know how they were doing it. He only knew that encountering a pack was a tricky situation. They absorbed bullets like it was their job. He could not harm them with a gun. But he knew that. He'd figured it out in Africa. _Aeons_ ago.

"There's no other way," Claire said.

"I'm not stupid, Claire. I have eyes."

He needed to get past them to the pharmacy, to salvation. The cold had gone from bad to worse. Claire kept nagging him, but this was the first day he felt strong enough to stand on his own feet. He diagnosed himself with bronchitis. He wasn't a doctor, but he had always watched E.R. on TV. In one of the episodes, some guy was diagnosed with severe bronchitis. Chris thought their symptoms were similar. Apart from the bit about the collapse of society and the post-apocalyptic world, of course.

A Pack – consisting of three – blocked the only way in.

The worms in their bodies swayed, danced, shivered. He felt the urge to vomit only watching. They were lumbering in front of some cars. Chris scanned the perimeter before readjusting his rifle on the tank of a blue Chrysler. One shot cracked a hole into the metal; the second blew everything in close proximity into the air.

Boom. Bang, Motherfuckers. Blown apart. All of them.

He crossed the distance in a sprint, his breathing not keeping up with his feet. Claire stayed behind. He was the faster runner.

There were boxes and bags, tablets and syrups. _Thousands_. Chris felt a lump in his throat. Frustration bubbled near the top. He swept a few handfuls into his rucksack and grabbed a thick, red book off the counter. _Pharmaceutical Codex._

He suffered of dyspnoea all the way back to the camp. When he arrived, he was wheezing. His lungs burned.

Claire waited for him. She didn't say it but he could tell she was happy that he had returned.

* * *

There was a farm on the outskirts of a little town, a half an hour drive from the city centre. Chris called it the bunker. He guessed they had kept cows and horses there. There was no sign of an animal, but the pictures on the walls evidenced the life once there. The house was as untouched as any he'd seen in a long time. No fight had gone down there. The furniture stood, like relics of a world forgotten, unmoved and dusty.

He presumed the real struggle had taken place in the stables. He had only been there once, on his initial sweep of the grounds. He had burned down the barn down immediately. The fire raged for two days. It kept packs away for three weeks.

* * *

After Africa, Chris did not search for Jill anymore. There was no trace of her. He thought – he _hoped_ – that she had died painlessly in the stealth bomber. He didn't know exactly what Wesker had done to her. But the brief interaction (a knee to the ribs – her; a punch to the jaw – him) was all the clarification he needed. The one true Jill had died at the Spencer Estate, sacrificing her life to defeat their sworn enemy.

That enemy though had not only survived, but resurrected an empty shell of the woman he loved and fought with, built a life with (wanted to die with).

In retrospect, it didn't matter if she died in Africa. In the five years since the infection, Uroboros had certainly claimed her, like it had done with everyone else on earth.

* * *

He had looted blood pressure pills, insulin injections and painkillers for menstrual cramps. For a brief moment he contemplated just swallowing them all. Claire would eventually grow to respect his choice. There was no help she could call for anyway.

If he took the anaesthetics first, perhaps he could fall asleep. Peacefully.

Fearlessly.

* * *

"Claire?"

She lay in the half-shadow of the fire.

"What's up, big bro?"

He pulled the blanket tighter around himself. It was freezing.

"Why are you still hanging around?"

He wanted to catch her by surprise with the question. Her face did not show the slightest hint of his plan working.

"You need someone to keep you company," she stated, matter-of-factly.

He thought he saw a smile in the darkness. He smiled back.

Then he turned over and closed his eyes.

He slept until the morning, fitfully, restlessly. Reality continued to haunt him in his dreams.

* * *

**But what is Hope? Nothing but the paint on the face of Existence; the least touch of truth rubs it off, and then we see what a hollow-cheeked harlot we have got hold of.**

**- Lord Byron**


	4. Chapter 4

_"One of the chief misfortunes of honest people is that they are cowardly."_

_- Voltaire_

* * *

The days dragged on slowly, while passing too fast. Jill stopped counting.

* * *

"Don't cut it too close in the back this time."

Jill sighed. She bit her bottom lip. The clippers buzzed.

Short blond hairs fell to the floor, onto her hand, onto his bare shoulders. Irritating the skin.

He would have to shower when she was done with him.

He always showered after they touched.

His spine stiffened when her fingers felt along the nape of his neck.

He told himself she was just checking the length.

* * *

He locked the door.

The water was burning hot.

He scrubbed roughly.

Especially _there_. Where her cold little hands had (too briefly) paid attention.

He could feel her listening, her breath held.

It unnerved him.

He scoured himself raw.

* * *

It was strange what the mind could do during times of duress.

Her entire world came down to the hand over her mouth and the body holding her _so _close, _so_ tight. Wesker's hand, Wesker's body. For months, it was the only memory she could resuscitate from the incident. His hand and his heat and his breath.

Later, she would be able to hear the screams, smell the mold of the forgotten basement, experience the fear as she'd experienced it on that day.

Above them, the family they'd stayed with on the outskirts of Aurora, Ohio, was being eaten alive. The two of them crouched below, hidden and secret, when the plague came.

Uroboros did not make quick work of the farm people. It consumed them one by one. Children last.

She heaved and gagged at the sounds, struggled. Wesker remained flat. He held her fast against him, kept her from condemning them both.

"Shhh… " As if calming a baby.

And he'd stroked her hair, other hand over her mouth, suffocating her sobs. He rocked her slowly.

Perhaps she'd imagined that part.

The littlest cried for his dead parents. Furniture knocked over upstairs, banging loudly. Broken like so many toothpicks.

She wept and clung to the monster prince.

She was a coward and did nothing while everyone around her died.

The inevitable silence came and Wesker stood, released her.

She found she could not let go of him though.

He did not resist as she burrowed into him and wailed.

He did not stop her when she began to punch him – first in the ribs, then anywhere she could land her fists. A blur of hate and despair and acceptance and grief and life and helplessness.

She exhausted herself quickly and sank to the floor, shaky legs giving out.

He'd reached down, lifted her face, thumb caressing the wet cheek.

"Do you want me to make this easier for you?" He'd asked so kindly. She was almost fooled.

She wanted so desperately to be fooled.

* * *

In the middle of the ruined living room, wiping away tears with her trembling hands, she let him give her the P30.

Coward that she was.

Fooled.

* * *

"The whole thing?"

"Whatever you feel is pertinent."

She scratched her arm and then began. "Must be dissolved with accompanying dilute… Requires a partner for ease of injection… Enlargement or even rupture of ovarian cysts may occur… hemo… hemoperi…"

"Hemoperitoneum."

"Yeah."

"Do you have ovarian cysts? Have you ever had them?"

She shrugged. "Probably not."

He took fast notes, tight sharp script. She watched, vial in her hand.

"You can't read this? The label?"

He stopped, pen on the paper, leaving an inky spot. "Excuse me?"

"Your eyes. Should you have glasses maybe?"

A threatening pause.

He snorted. "Are you seriously questioning the acuteness of my senses, Jill?"

"No. Never." She fought the urge to smile.

She'd touched a nerve. But that had been her intention.

He sneered at her and went back to the writing. After a period of time, he spoke softly.

"It's not _me_, Jill, it's this damned lighting."

* * *

The new injection hurt more than the P30.

It had to go in her thigh.

She gasped.

Unthinking, he massaged the site. Eased it.

Her eyes were on his hand. Lips parted. Smooth length of a bare leg.

He pulled away as if she'd bitten him.

_Escape. Quickly_.

* * *

"Enough!"

She'd badgered him all morning. He could take no more.

She winced as the needle went into her neck, pretending to hate it. Her body slumped. She glared up at him.

Falsified. Faked. Feigned.

When he left her alone in the sleeping quarters, she lay on the thin mattress. Pleased.

It was getting easier with each passing day to arouse enough _emotion_ in him for her fix.

She laughed a little at her cleverness.

* * *

There were many days when they didn't speak at all.

* * *

He almost wondered if she was testing him.

A wet blue thong was strung up over the basin they used to wash clothes. Drying.

Strange red eyes drawn up to study it from across the lab.

Repeatedly.

He shifted in the rolling chair.

_She wouldn't be that dumb._

…_would she?_

_Yes - dumb like a fox._

_

* * *

_

She handed him the list.

The loopy handwriting was larger than usual. For his eyes.

He looked it over wearily, glancing at her.

She stood next to him. Very close.

_You are too familiar, Jill. You court disaster._

He nodded and set it down.

She pulled on a hooded sweatshirt.

Umbrella logo on the chest.

Ironic.

They would leave for supplies soon.

* * *

The hatch door opened a few inches.

Preternatural eyes surveyed the landscape.

The air was cold on his face. The first snow of the year had begun to fall, light and wet.

The late autumn forest was silent when they crawled out onto the surface.

Hades and his reluctant Persephone.

* * *

His strides were long and measured. She trailed a short distance behind. The car was half a mile off.

A dusting of the new snow fell to his shoulders. It floated, found the leather and then melted. He moved like an animal through the naked, sleeping trees.

"I can't remember what happened in Africa. At the end."

Angry sigh.

"That's the P30 affecting your memory. We go through this over and over, Jill."

She rolled her eyes. He didn't see her but he knew. He knew her every move, her every reaction.

He'd memorized them, analyzed them, obsessed over them when he was alone.

"Tell me. Please."

He cleared his throat, relenting (the word _please_ was his among his favorite things to hear).

"There was a struggle, between myself and Chris Redfield. Your old partner."

_Also a woman named Sheva. And you, Jill, were the catalyst that would end her life._

"We fought, hand to hand, for several minutes."

_Seven minutes._

"He tried to kill you – to get to me. He was enraged."

_He tried to free you, save you. But you were not his… You belonged to me. _

"I fired at him. I may have killed him. Perhaps not."

_I shot the woman. In the gut. A slow, agonizing death. We left her to bleed out in the catacombs_.

_Sweet retribution._

"We escaped. The jet, however, failed to launch. And all was lost."

_He ruined __**everything**__. I saw my life's work go down in a fiery blaze. _

_That night, I beat you within an inch of your life. _

_I beat you and heard you beg for mercy. _

_I beat you as if you were Chris._

_

* * *

_

They drove into the heart of Eden.

* * *

_"Gradually he forced her into the position of doing nothing without his leave… She was not even free to dress as she chose… When she occasionally dared to do anything, however small, without his leave, he treated her like a servant, and she was in tears for several days… He would give her such brusque replies that everyone would lower their eyes, and the Duchess would blush, though her passion for him was in no way curtailed. For the princess, he was the sovereign remedy against boredom."_

_- Stendhal, Love_

_

* * *

_

**AN: Apologies if this chapter skipped around too much. I enjoy writing the mundane events in the lives of these two and I find the easiest way to accomplish a sense of intimacy between story and reader is to reveal them in choppy little blocks. Hope everyone was able to keep up. Thanks too for all the kind words and suggestions. I enjoy reading your theories about the direction of plot and development of the characters. It's lovely. **

**SLT.**


	5. Chapter 5

"What distinguishes a suggestion... is that in the case of a suggestion an idea is aroused in another person's brain which is not examined in regard to its origin but is accepted just as though it had arisen spontaneously in that brain."

- Sigmund Freud

* * *

It was happening again.

She had woken up in the middle of the night. A nightmare.

Her blanket had been kicked to the floor, taking the shape of some shadow creature, born of her terror. Her breath was ragged - loud, hurting her ears in the deafening silence.

She was propped up on a bony elbow, using her other hand to wipe the sweat on her face. She was pale, and the suffocating, humid air of her room made the moisture on the rest of her body feel cool every time she shifted. She peeled off the soaked shirt, bare back feeling the relief.

She looked around, her eyes squinting in the dark. She listened for his breathing.

Nothing.

She was alone.

* * *

She had been dreaming.

She had dreamed of the African sun, the weight of the cloak on her shoulders, the warmed metal of the mask against her cheeks. Looking out from two jeweled eyes - everything she saw was blood-red. _Was this how he saw life? _

She dreamt of Kijuju.

The people, the smell of the hot rain just before it broke over, the red-dirt streets, shanty towns, and her first taste of goat. She remembered their dark eyes. Sunken. Weary. Distrustful. Long lashes stealing dust from the winds.

Then the scene changed. She was in a dark room. A man was lying on the ground before her. He was mumbling something in Swahili and there was no weight on her chest, yet she could feel the strength flowing through her being.

Wesker was standing behind her, watching but always detached. His breathing was heavy, labored by the heat. She could hear _everything_ with the P30 in her. His eyes flashed behind his lenses.

"Kill him."

There were no questions as she hefted the machete off the floor. It was already covered in coagulating blood.

Inwardly she thrashed and vied for control. She fought it with all her might, but she lost. She always lost to him.

The man looked up and screamed, covering his neck with his hands as he pressed his forehead to the floor – slowly rocking as drool dribbled from his quivering lips. Just one more layer to cut through.

The first chop severed most of his fingers, though some that didn't get the brunt of the blade were still hanging by a few strings of muscle. Her measured strength made sure it didn't reach his neck. He didn't stay on the ground. He threw himself back - screaming, what was left of his hands shaking as he kicked out his legs and tried to get away. Blood sprinkled like mist in his wake.

Wesker sighed at her, the sweet smell of the blood curling up to his nose. "Shut him up."

She left the machete buried in his forehead.

* * *

The P30 had worn off, which is why the nightmare had driven her awake. A fever would come soon and she would feel distressed most of the night. She probably wouldn't sleep.

Tears trickled down her cheeks, and she wiped them away before moving to sit up, swinging her legs over the edge of the creaking bed and putting her head in her hands. She stared at darkness as her muscles began to throb. She felt so weak. A deep, burning pain began to flare up in her stomach, and she let out a quiet groan as she pressed her wet forehead against her knees and wrapped her arms around her torso.

She was careful not to be too loud. He could hear the sound of a pin drop across the country.

She was starting to shake. Every movement hurt, even when she fell back onto her side and curled up in bed.

She needed more. _It _was weak. _It_ needed more.

She wasn't going to ask him for any though, she never did. She didn't like showing her weakness for it, and instead always tried to goad him into giving it to her by pissing him off.

In the midst of her agony, she smiled.

* * *

She had come up with a name for it.

It was not of her, it was an entirely separate entity – a parasite coiling around her mind. It was always there, whispering words of doubt. Apart, yet still _a part_ of her.

_Eat of the tree. _

Said the Serpent.

* * *

Snow drifted like falling stars from the gray skies, sticking to the ground and piling up.

She was huddled up in her sweatshirt, idly working her fingers underneath it to poke at the scars on her chest. She traced what had been a hole, where a line must have gone in deep, memorizing it as she leaned forward and turned the heat on with her other hand. He was focused on the road, not paying attention to her – at least until it started to get warm in the car.

He drew in a deep breath and she glanced over at him – one hand buried in her pocket and the other still beneath her hoodie. He reached over and flicked it off. A minute later she turned it back on. He turned it off again and watched it this time, slapping her fingers away when she moved for it.

"Stop it, Jill."

"You're not the only person in here."

"Neither are you."

She quieted a moment, and then grew angry for him making her feel childish.

"Your body temperature is three times higher than mine, _Wesker_. I'm freezing."

He let out a peel of condescending laughter.

"You're wearing a jacket... and exaggerating, _Jill_."

She sank down deeper into her sweatshirt, hiding her nose against the cold. She seethed inside.

The snow was everywhere, light reflecting. She remembered someone telling her once not to look directly at it. Could cause damage to the eyes. She looked at her feet, clicking her boots together, circling the scar - thinking.

_There's no place like home. _

She felt his knuckles lightly bump her shoulder and she looked up. He was holding out his sunglasses to her. Silently she took them, but did not put them on. Instead she chose to look at them, flipping them around, and running her fingers along the rims.

"I didn't give them to you to play with. Put them on. You're squinting." His voice was a growl. She couldn't help but smirk.

* * *

She cried.

There was dirt in her mouth and in her eyes; at the mercy of the cold African moon.

He had made sure the P30 had faded before he unleashed his fury upon her, so that she would feel every blow and she would take longer to heal. Tears mixed with the blood on her swollen cheeks, dark bruises blossoming. She was so weak already, and she was aching all over.

But he wasn't done with her.

"All these years, the two of you have been there, waiting to _spoil everything_!" He snarled, fingers curling into her hair and jerking her head back while pulling her to her feet. She was too weak to struggle, and just let out a hoarse cry of pain. How long had this been going on? Hours? Days? Weeks? The pain was endless. "I should have just killed you both myself in '98. I've allowed this game to go on far too long, and now look what has happened..." His breath was scorching against her ear, his teeth pressed against the outer rim.

She half expected him to bite it off.

He threw her to the ground, circling her like a hungry wolf. She landed on her hands and knees and sucked on her bottom lip, trying to make the pain from the split lessen. All she did was make it worse; the taste of iron and salt lingering on her tongue.

He was suddenly kneeling before her, and she raised her head slowly. One of her eyes was swelling shut. She could only see one side of him now. _This _side.

His hand reached out, stroking her bruised cheek, causing her to flinch.

"You, though, have been such a cooperative pawn, Jill. You even helped to further my plans, but Chris..." His hand pulled away, and slammed into her cheek again as a fist. A horrible, mind-numbing pain shot through the entirety of her face and she hit the ground on her side – hard. She could only let out a wet choke, more blood leaking from her mouth. Something was broken – loose. A lot of things were.

Teeth.

"I was so _close_," His boot connected with the side of her head in a fierce kick. She saw stars. "-so close to completing my vision of a new world. I should have anticipated his arrival, he's always been nothing but a nuisance." He had stalked away during his rant. She didn't try to get up. She only stared at the ground with her one eye blankly. She was in so much pain she couldn't differentiate where it was coming from. She hurt everywhere.

She felt her arm being lifted slowly, he had come back.

"Stop... please don't..." she managed to cough out. He ignored her.

"I wish he was here to see this. He looked so heartbroken when I shot his partner. Just think of how upset he would be to see me break his _whore_."

He was holding her by the forearm, slowly twisting it while he talked. She began to whimper, and the more he twisted, the more her whimpers turned to screams. He was going to tear it off at this rate.

"Stop! Please!" she begged. Sobs were torn from her bleeding mouth.

He paused, thoughtful, before giving the arm a quick jerk and popping her elbow out of place. At first, her mouth opened but no sound would come. Her legs thrashed as a voice she didn't recognize as her own scraped its way out of her throat. "_Please, Wesker, please..._"

The whisper of his name, the begging, issued from bloodied lips, stopped him in his tracks. The sound of it so desperate it was nearly erotic. He wanted it to stop. Wanted her to stop.

He dropped her, watching as her arm twitched and jerked at an unusual angle. He fled, back into the shadows.

It hurt her to cry. Yet, the sobbing continued, even as he left her there for what seemed like forever and the agony had dulled into numbness. She couldn't stop.

And all she could think about was Chris.

* * *

"Gold Bond Ultimate Healing or Jergen's?"

Wesker looked up from trying to read a cereal box in the dimness of the grocery store, glaring at her as she held up the two hand lotions. His sunglasses were perched on her head.

"It doesn't matter, Jill." Truly though, he preferred Jergen's. It was oilier. Slid more easily over stretched skin. Lasted longer. He would never tell her. Some things were sacred.

He didn't wait for her to question as he disappeared down another isle – going to search for the canned foods on her list. She sighed and stuffed them both into the bag and grabbed a few bars of soap and a bottle of Dove shampoo. She knew that was his favorite. It was always gone before the others.

* * *

She was eating pineapples out of a can, catching juice that tried to escape down her chin with her tongue. She saw him glance at her several times from behind the last newspaper the town had seen.

He was sitting in the only chair in the small, cramped space – banishing her to the floor.

"So the virus makes it so you don't have to eat then?" She paused, tongue snaking out to slowly trace her bottom lip. He watched it, acting indifferent. She knew better.

"Correct." He didn't have to elaborate. He tried to read again, but she set the can beside her on the floor and reached around the chair, fingers ghosting over his knee. _Oops..._ He went rigid and looked down at her, silent.

"How sick do you get when the virus runs out, I wonder..." Her voice had dropped low, blue eyes fixed on him. She imagined that fire in his eyes burning out, growing cold. Nothing but a pile of black ash in the snow. "Do you die? Or go back to being a man?" _With man-needs, and man-desires, and man-urges?_

"I won't run out." The conversation was over then, and he went back to the newspaper. It rustled in his gloved hands. "Ever."

She leaned back against the wall. Her mouth twitched. But she kept the smile at bay.

He didn't sound so certain.

The seeds of doubt were toxic after all. Even to him.

* * *

He looked down at the supply list, squinting.

_Blankets._

"Blankets?"

She shrugged. "I get cold at night."

"You never complain."

"Because, I know _you_ won't do anything about it. It's not like you'll be keeping me warm at night. Anytime soon, at least."

She glanced over at him. Suggestive. She sauntered away. He stood in that spot, pursing his lips – left to think over the last part of her statement.

_Anytime soon_.

The Serpent in her purred at the thought.

* * *

Her finger stroked an alabaster key, scraping off the dust. She rubbed it between thumb and index. Grit. Then wiped it on her pants as she sat down. Each finger found a familiar place, joints curling as she pressed down on the first key. A note spilled into the silent air; high, clarion.

"What are you doing?"

She jumped and quickly spun around, her ponytail slapping into her cheek with the sheer speed of the movement. Years of training. He had his hand on the wall, blankets bunched under his other arm. His sunglasses were still on her head. He looked angry – his jaw clenched.

"I-I was just... it brought back memories," She gulped. Her hands moved away from the instrument and she got to her feet – too fast. She knocked over the bench with the back of her legs and winced when it hit the dusty wooden floors with a bang. It echoed. He took several menacing steps toward her, crossing the distance between them and causing her to back up against keys. She bit her lip.

"Let me make myself clear - they can hear you _breathe_ from a mile away, Jill. Any noise louder than that they can hear from even _farther_ away. So, unless you want to draw an entire Pack to our exact location, I suggest you keep your hands to _yourself_." He didn't back away from her, and instead continued to hover in her personal space. She drew in a quick breath and averted her eyes.

"Well?" he pressed, and she was forced to look back up at him. She opened her mouth to speak but her hand slipped from the wooden top. Her other hand shot out, grasping his bicep to keep her palm from slamming down on the keys and making more noise. She accidentally pulled him forward, their hips a hair's breadth from meeting. She felt his muscle tense, and she tensed as well. They never touched if they didn't have to. But that single contact was all it took.

_Please_. It was begging, its voice nothing but a shuddering, tortured plea. _Please. Make him touch us..._

A cord snapped within her and she wanted to be closer, she wanted to share his air, she wanted to feel much, much more than just his bicep. An unbearable heat surged through her. Her hand jerked away from him, burned, and she scooted along the edge of the instrument in an escape - snaking around him. She refused to look at him, her ears ringing. She sent a glare at the piano.

"Yeah, okay... can we leave now?"

He didn't utter a word as he headed for the door - she followed, reluctant. Afraid of the urges a car ride might awaken.

But nothing happened. The Serpent stayed quiet.

Although, _he_ avoided her like the plague.

Things would go back to normal in a few weeks. That didn't seem like such a long time anymore.

* * *

"I give the fight up: let there be an end, a privacy, an obscure nook for me. I want to be forgotten even by God."

- Robert Browning


	6. Chapter 6

_"Some nights are made for torture, or reflection, or the savoring of loneliness."_

_- Poppy Z. Brite_

* * *

Cold.

His lungs burned. Freezing fire.

Chris pulled the blanket closer around himself, his head lolling from left to right. Forth. Jerk. Back. Wall. He groaned, heaving.

He tried to throw them up, but they were too far gone. He'd taken too many in his rapture. Too many pills, now dissolved in his bloodstream. His teeth clattered with an intensity that made the edges chip off. His vision was dotted with white spots. Indistinguishable shapes. Dream-monsters that now came to him even in waking hours.

He couldn't stand.

When the cramps started, he cowered in a corner. Helpless.

"Shhh..."

It was Claire. Whispering, hushing, soothing. Somewhere. The ringing in his ears inhibited any sense of orientation.

He wiped at his nose with the precision of a junkie on his trip. The hand came back, lined with complicated crimson patterns. Dream-monsters in red.

He licked his upper lip, probing. Liquid copper. He was too dazed to ponder the meaning of it.

* * *

In the late hours of that day shadows joined the mournful instant when Chris' lungs gave him an ultimatum.

Darkness crawled over him, so eager to hear his labored breathing. It lowered invisible weights on his chest.

In the company of gloomy figures he stopped fighting.

* * *

Claire was there. That was the only thing that mattered.

* * *

Monday evening. Graveyard shift. Raccoon City was a small town. Big horror headlines never wrote themselves on Monday evenings.

Wesker sat in his office, dotting the i's and crossing the t's.

Brad helped a rookie cop fix her broken computer.

Barry was home. Family.

Jill and Chris were to check on the holding cells in the basement. But there wasn't a lot to check on. The cell blocks were empty.

Still, orders were orders.

Jill inspected the switched off light bulb on the ceiling; with her back arched, pressed against the wall. Chris scrutinized that carved writing in front of her, with his hands on her waist, pulling her to him (so he could see better).

_fuck the police_

Hell, yeah.

Jill closed her eyes, felt his length.

They moaned on the first thrust and sucked each other's fingers to keep from crying out again.

* * *

He didn't know how long he'd been gone. The first thing he did when he regained his senses was discard the remaining pills.

The bronchitis passed, but at a lagging pace. It left him weak.

He holed up in a forest cabin. The fire burned continuously.

He did not heat with wood.

The smell of scorched flesh kept Uroborii away.

* * *

The water drew wet trails on his skin. Chris observed the crust of dirt crumble under the force of the jet. He withdrew his hand.

The spring with its little waterfall had been an accidental finding. It was situated in a clearing of the forest, at the foot of a mountain. It stood in a good tactical position. Clear sight in all directions.

With a thud, the rucksack hit the ground. He aligned his guns on the grass, tested if he could reach them in time.

He rid himself of his shirt. The air meeting his skin was chilly. He imagined the water was even colder.

"Don't be a chicken."

Chris turned around, hissing. "Goddamn, Claire. Get lost."

The smile on her face dropped.

"Five minutes," he insisted. "I don't need you to watch me while I wash myself."

"Someone got out the wrong side of the bed today, huh?"

He ignored her.

Boots and trousers followed the shirt. He was a little reluctant to get into the water. It was the first time he would wash since... a long time.

Hot water was a luxury that had been lost with the collapse of the civilized world. And he had never been a fan of cold showers.

* * *

Back against the chilly tiles, Jill in his lap, slender arms around his neck. They were taking in the floor now. Making sure prisoners couldn't escape through faulty construction.

She held him so tightly. She mewled for him with each roll of her hips. He bit her - throat, shoulder, lip. Then earlobe, lip, nipple through her shirt.

Jill had a good view this way.

He left the work to her this round. She had eagle eyes.

If there was an issue with the flooring she'd detect it, he was sure.

They had to do their jobs, after all.

* * *

He used an old shirt to dry himself.

A fire crackled to life while he washed dirty laundry. He couldn't shake off the feeling that someone was watching him. And he didn't mean Claire.

The rifle was familiar and heavy in his hands.

He listened. Completely still.

* * *

No one was supposed to turn on the lights.

No one was supposed to come to the holding cells on a graveyard shift on Monday night.

No one was supposed to see exactly how Chris and Jill interpreted strict orders, their way of execution. How thorough they'd been. Checked every nook, from every angle.

Did their jobs;_ fuck the police._

No one was supposed to find out.

Especially not Captain Wesker.

* * *

Its appendages had a life of their own, wriggling, worming, eating in on themselves. Festering pustules popped with every slide.

He observed it through the scope of his rifle.

It seemed to sniff the ground, leaving a thick trail of slime in its wake. It made a circle around the fire he had set earlier. It smelt the place he had knelt at to wash his clothes. Several worms detached as it moved, squirming like insects trapped on their backs.

Chris felt the urge to pull the trigger, but knew better than to waste ammunition on a lost cause. Uroborii were not affected by bullets. He would only draw its attention.

Gesturing to Claire, they retreated.

* * *

_I'm so sorry. Don't find me._

* * *

Winter had come. Chris thanked Jack Wolfskin for weatherproof boots and the store in a jerkwater town that was so godforsaken not even Packs made an effort to roam it.

The snow was ankle-deep. It rose steadily. He had found an abode for the season. It was a decrepit house in the middle of a field, on the very outskirts of the village. Infection had never found it. Weeds had claimed it first. Nobody had lived here when Uroboros wiped out humanity.

Chris conducted various repairs. Broken windows wanted to be flicked, firewood collected and cut. Water conduits had frozen. He didn't even take the pains trying to fix them. There was enough snow he could melt.

Claire sat silently on a pile of logs, watching him as he prepared to head for town.

They hadn't talked in days.

Chris pressed his lips together, forming a tight line. She rarely helped him lately. It frustrated him.

"I'm going to be back in a few hours," he told her as he strapped on the rucksack. "Keep the fire burning."

* * *

Baked beans. Spaghetti. Pumpkin soup. It was amazing what man could stuff into cans. Chris deliberately avoided fish and meat. He'd made the grave mistake of eating tuna once, ignoring the expiration date. It not only tasted worse than usually, it also forced him to stay close to the ground for the better part of a week with all kinds of lovely intestinal ailments. Chris hadn't eaten fish ever since.

The grocery store was tiny by American standards, but it was evident that at one point infection had reached this place. Shelves were knocked over, bags burst, their contents spilling. Chris found random patches of blood, dried a dark brown over time. There was nothing fresh.

He packed in toiletries and roamed the magazines section. He took a new toothbrush and Haribo sweets. He picked up a special something for Claire.

He could give it to her when things calmed down between them.

Or as a Christmas present.

Whenever that was.

He had stopped keeping track of time months ago.

* * *

"I cannot believe the two of you!"

He was yelling. Jill kept her eyes down, Chris looked over and above Wesker.

"What the hell were you thinking? Hmm? How could you be so _stupid_?" He railed on. "I expect so little from you,_ so very little_. And this is what you do when you have five minutes alone?"

He laughed, incredulous, raked his hands through that so-oft mocked hair. Chris would not mock him anymore.

He was actually afraid.

"Fucking. I catch you... fucking in a cell. Unbelievable. Fucking like high schoolers."

Jill's shoulders slumped. He knew she did not brush those misplaced strands of tangled hair out of her face for a reason. Caught red-handed. She was burning with shame. She tried desperately to hide.

He recalled the look on Wesker's face. They had been in the shadows, until the light was turned on. Jill's palms and knees ragged from the cement. Chris pulled out quickly, fell back, buttoned the slacks.

Wesker could only stare. His mouth open. Words too furious to form.

Chris helped her up.

She would never forgive him.

* * *

_It's too much. This life is too much._

* * *

"Your partnership, in STARS, is over," Wesker spat at them. He tapped his fancy pen against the desk. A gavel. He announced the verdict - judge, jury, and executioner all at once.

"Chris, you will pair up with Barry. Jill, you will be mine."

What strange wording, he'd thought. How it would ring true, years later, was stunning.

Wesker paused, glaring at them. He pointed the pen at Chris, accusing.

"I cannot stop or discourage you from fraternizing outside of the workplace, however, I suggest that you seriously consider the implications of this. And I mean _seriously._ This is your probation period. Don't fuck it up." He tossed the pen, repulsed by them.

There was no greater humiliation than witnessing his Captain take away his girl.

"You are so lucky I don't terminate you on the spot."

It seemed like Wesker kept looking at _him._ It seemed like he aimed everything at _him._

Not that he wanted Jill to share in the wrath - he'd do anything to protect her. He just found it odd, especially in retrospect.

Wesker reached under the sunglasses, rubbed his eyes. He had used up his words, could find no more.

"Now get out of my sight."

* * *

The fire had died.

Claire was upstairs, in her room. Sleeping.

Enraged, he dropped their supplies on the table and set to make another fire.

He was going to have an argument with her tomorrow.

* * *

Jill broke up with him a week later.

"I can't do this anymore, Chris."

No explanation. He couldn't bring himself to ask.

"Maybe when things... calm down."

But he knew who to focus his anger on.

And it wasn't Jill.

"I love you. I really do. But... I just can't."

It wasn't that hurtful space between them ever since the incident.

It was Wesker who deserved every ounce of his hate. From now on, and for years to come.

"You understand, right Chris? Still best friends, right?"

_Right._

_**

* * *

**_

_**Right.**_

* * *

It was an outstandingly beautiful day that Chris chose to celebrate New Years Eve on. He and Claire had buried the hatchet. Although they had camped out in the same house for more than a fortnight, there were no signs of Uroboros. Chris inspected the grounds on a daily basis.

It was close to nightfall that he went to town and got them a bottle of Dom Pérignon. Only the best to celebrate what mattered most. Life.

Claire didn't want any. She went to sleep early. He drank it all by himself.

_A Happy New Year to all the mangled worm-crawlers in the world. _

They found him in the morning.

* * *

_After great pain, a formal feeling comes. The Nerves sit ceremonious, like tombs._

_- Emily Dickinson_


	7. Chapter 7

**"Your beauty, that did haunt me in my sleep**  
**To undertake the death of all the world**  
**So I might live one hour in your sweet bosom."**  
- William Shakespeare, _The Tragedy of King Richard III_

_

* * *

_

Wesker hid all the cans of pineapple slices while she slept.

He could not afford another spectacle like that.

Her wet pink tongue on her swollen, winter-rouged lips.

Sticky syrup barely kept in her hungry eager little mouth.

Too much.

_Not enough_.

He sighed with relief when he shoved the last one behind untouched cleaning supplies.

* * *

She hadn't driven in years. He'd never let her.

Lately though, he'd let her do a lot of things that were once forbidden.

Trust, perhaps.

_Misplaced_, she thought. _Foolish. Careless._

_Weak._

The steering wheel felt so good under her hands. So much power.

He handed her the sunglasses again. Snow glare.

The warm metal reminded her that they had been on his face seconds before.

They did not fit her well. She looked so strange in them. It was funny.

Her laughter was sudden and disarming, like dishes breaking. A pretty, messy sound.

He smiled to himself, fleeting.

She was a rib unbound.

* * *

She did not wait for his permission when they reached the dilapidated general store. She sat directly down at the dusty piano and began.

After all, the monsters were hibernating.

Even his.

* * *

When Chris and Jill dragged themselves from his office, unfinished and ashamed, Wesker sat staring at the desk for a long time.

He'd known they'd been dating. They made no secret of it. He was infuriated at how shocked he found himself.

* * *

There was the poker game aftermath a few months prior. Jill oozed all the way home, half-inebriated, about their nonsensical lovers' quarrels, about the time Chris made her try oysters and how sick she'd gotten, about the way he was with her sister's children.

"_He'll make such a good dad, sir. Don't you get that feeling from him? How warm he is? God, he's so good with kids. He got pretty drunk tonight. He doesn't party much anymore. He's getting too old for it…"_

Wesker said nothing. Not one word on that drive. It was the longest ten minutes of his life.

He walked her up to her townhouse. She thanked him, said goodnight... and closed the door in his face.

And he'd stood there in the shadows, hands in his pockets.

What _exactly_ had he expected from her?

_

* * *

_

The memory of that night had harassed him, magnified by their indiscretion.

Why hadn't he put a stop to their relationship? It would have been so simple.

He berated himself for letting them go on for so long, letting it get so bad. So bad that _he_ had actually found them. Animals that they were.

Worse still was that pain in his chest. His ribs felt tight, unable to open. And his head ached. _What the hell was that feeling?_

He grew angry. He forced himself to harden. He _hated_.

Hate was such an easy, uncomplicated emotion.

* * *

Everyone on his team had left for the night before he dared, trusted enough to move.

He picked up the phone, dialed a number he would never admit to having memorized.

"Madame Delassixe… I'm well… Yes. Do you have an opening tonight?"

He looked at the wall clock. "In 20 minutes."

He shut down the office.

* * *

He maintained a disinterested expression as she played.

In truth, he was anything but.

Pale fingers trailed over items he wasn't even looking at.

The instrument could have used tuning. It sounded eerie – the acoustics of the building so strange with its vaulted wood roof.

He listened to her play for an hour as he paced.

She finished. Her cold stiff hands too tired to go on.

He was sad for it.

No applause, just his silence.

She closed the keyboard up carefully.

* * *

It was a house like any other. A colonial on a heritage street.

The person living there was what interested him.

The plaque on the door read: _Madame Modeste Delassixe. Psychic._

She opened the home to him, wiping her hands on her smock.

"N'ap boule, moun-vini."

Sandalwood and myrhh smoldered somewhere. The lights were dimmed; floor lamps covered with red scarves. Prayer candles on tables. A dreamcatcher over the staircase. Retablos, Santos, Day of the Dead art on the walls. Shrines and mirrors, set for nameless gods.

He stood in the entryway, hands clasped behind his back, until he was invited.

She led him to the Room of Knowing through a beaded doorway.

* * *

After the end of the world, during November, he fell asleep in the lab.

He dreamt a silvery vision of a woman. He lay under her.

Surrendered.

She sat on his chest, sinewy thighs spread over him.

His thumbs rubbed circles on her hipbones. They jutted from her; made for his touch.

His palms pushed up her stomach, then up the valley between her breasts, to the graceful curve of her throat.

Her hair hung over her face. He tucked it behind delicate ears. Eyes met.

_"Jill?"_

And then vengeful fingers under his jaw cut him off from breath.

"No," Jill said as she choked him.

* * *

His knees slammed against the underside of the lab table. He threw himself back in the rolling chair, gasping. His hand went to his throat then.

Nothing. A nightmare.

It took him 47 seconds to return to homeostasis. 47 seconds – to regulate his breathing, slow his heart, ease himself.

And _she_ slept soundly down the hall, oblivious to her dream spectre.

His Lilith.

* * *

He was a man who believed in nothing… and everything.

His confidence stemmed from fear, as all arrogance does. His fear bred the need to control. The best way to control was to know. The way to knowing was not always traditional.

"Sa k'genyen, Monsieur Wesker?" She brought out the velvet-swathed deck. She peeled back the material as if she was unwrapping a gift.

"I need to be assured."

"About… your plans?"

"Yes."

"Cut the deck. Three times. Put it back together the way your spirit tells."

He proceeded. Cautious. Slow.

"I was surprised to hear from you so soon after your last consultation. Are the things that consume you moving along?"

"Yes. I just need one more confirmation. This is a very big project. Far-reaching effects."

She smiled, warm and motherly. "Of course. Think of your question, Monsieur."

She pulled the top card, placed it at the center of what would be a cross.

_The Lovers_.

Her eyes flicked up to his face. "You think on a different kind of question, sir."

* * *

"I thought you said they were dead," Jill whispered. "You said the cold killed them, Wesker."

She backed up, backed into him. His hands found her shoulders, stopped her. She was shaking.

He debated. There were few options. He did not like any of them.

The Uroboros swayed, menacing, poised near their car.

"Take the bag. Don't move until I tell you to move."

She could hear it in his voice.

He was afraid.

* * *

Near the end of the spread, she pulled a card for the place of opposition.

_The Devil_.

She looked confused. The reading had been strangely negative. This client _never_ elicited negative readings. Fate always played out in his favor.

"What? What is it?" he asked.

She looked at the card.

"_Montre_," he demanded then, tension building.

"Pas bon, sir."

"I'm the devil? This is me?" He pointed to the demon in the center of the card, holding the chains to a man and woman, passive at his clawed feet.

"Non. You are here. Surrendered to the flesh." Her finger touched the depiction of Adam, bound by a collar, nude. "You see… he wears the chain freely. He chooses so. This is you."

Madame Delassixe gestured to Eve, also a prisoner. "She is the girl. The one that pains you tonight. Even in the future, you are bound to her."

His nostrils flared. "Next. Tell me what's next."

* * *

He did something uncharacteristic and indisputably dumb then.

He purposefully stood between the monster and Jill as it advanced.

It took him down with ease and tossed him like a ragdoll against the side of the general store.

* * *

Reluctantly, she pulled a card for the space of hopes and longings.

_Judgement_.

"You desire release. To… be birthed. Again. Forgiveness. These are your hopes."

He snorted. _Never_.

"This is not now, Monsieur. This is away – far ahead. You will be new then." She defended the voice of the cards.

"Next, Madame."

She paused before drawing the final card, for the place of outcome and resolution.

"This is what will be, sir."

_The Tower_.

They both stared at the card. A castle, in ruin, aflame. Broken and crumbling.

She brought her hands to her mouth.

"What? _Kisa sa a ye_?"

"Failure. Destruction. You will realize the truth – too late…"

"_What?_"

"Sadness. A death."

"Jill?" The name fell from his lips hastily, without thought. "The girl?"

She looked up. "No. _You._"

* * *

He gave Jill a lot of undesired advice. Most of it nonsense.

However, on one occasion, he told her that she did not have to be the fastest to escape Uroboros… only faster than the slowest person in the group. They were such easily distracted monsters.

She recalled that as she pressed the keys to the ignition, fumbling, watching Wesker meet his end not fifteen feet away.

* * *

She was driving fast. Glancing in the rearview mirror.

The glint of the sunglasses on her head.

She looked up at them.

Laid on the brakes, the car skidding to a stop in the snow.

"Fuck. Fuck fuck _fuck_. God damn him!"

She punched the dash, crushing it near a vent.

She gave herself five seconds. Five seconds to reconsider, five seconds to change her mind and run forever.

Five seconds to decide his fate.

"Jesus Christ, help me."

The car jerked into reverse.

She drove back towards the sleepy town on the edge of that frozen lake.

* * *

He was barely alive when she got there.

They didn't want to eat his tainted flesh. They didn't want him to survive either.

He was heavy when she dragged him through the snow by the leather lapels of his coat. She pushed him into the backseat. He groaned and she told him to shut up.

She paused, looking over a tear in the leg of his pants. Black worms wound out of a gash in his thigh. He bled.

He bled everywhere.

"Oh my God. Oh shit. Oh shit." Panic. She began to back away.

* * *

He stopped at the door as he left. His hand on the frame, his back to the psychic.

"Madame, you should know that something will happen soon. I suggest you leave Raccoon City. Now."

He turned to her, addressed her in broken Creole. "Ou konprann? Kouri. Kache. Prese. Leave."

When he was gone, she crossed herself, whispered charms.

She drew on the wood floors with chalk.

Secret signs to keep him from coming back.

* * *

Two weeks after his reading, Raccoon City was ground zero for the first wave of Umbrella's monstrosities.

Everyone died. Including Madame Delassixe.

* * *

**"We seduce with our death, our vulnerability, and with the void that haunts us."**  
- Jean Baudrillard, _Seduction_

_

* * *

_

_AN: So writing this chapter was nerve-wracking. Things are always a little tense when you're fleshing out a character the way **you** think they should be, well-aware that others might have a different idea. Oh well. Thanks to my fabulous and patient co-authors, T. and C., who stared at this as much as I did, as well as LMT, who gave it a good looking-over too. _

_Until next time..._


	8. Chapter 8

"Man is the only kind of varmint sets his own trap, baits it, then steps in it."

- John Steinbeck

* * *

She didn't beg him to go back, in fact, she didn't even mention it.

They were sitting outside. The snow had fallen to a perfect, two-inch layer onto the ground and was still coming. Jill was walking around, hands tucked into her pockets, while she kicked it up – jagged circles of dead brown grass. Allowing corpses to breathe.

He was reading his book again, clad in nothing but a T-shirt and jeans. No jacket today.

"So they don't like the cold?" As she said this she looked up, blinking away snowflakes caught in her lashes. Flies in a spider web. He looked up at her.

"No."

"Where do you think they go?"

"I don't know. I would assume south. I'm certain most die."

"Why?"

"Because the virus is unstable. Whichever did survive the autumnal temperature drop are probably just a solid black mass by now."

"You think?"

He sighed. "Yes, Jill. That is my educated guess."

"Oh," she kicked up more snow. "Can we go into town then?"

"Why is it you always have so many questions when I decide to read?" He was irritated. She rolled her shoulders under the sweater, shivering a little at the cold creeping in.

"Okay, can I go then?"

"Absolutely not." He laughed.

She became angry. "Why? I'm not going to take off, Wesker. Where the hell would I go?" She was glaring at him.

A smile crept onto his lips, stark white teeth matching the snow. He shut the book. "Are you admitting dependence, Jill?"

"I… no. It would just be hard to get along by myself... Better to travel together." She looked away then. Sheepish, weak. It amused him.

She turned suddenly and walked off.

He knew she had the keys on her.

He'd give her a head start, he had to go get his jacket anyway.

* * *

She had started devoting her thoughts to petty things. She didn't have much else to think about.

She sat with him in the lab, leaning back against the wall while he worked, picking at her nails. Silently, she wondered why she had never used his first name. Hell, half the time she forgot that Wesker _wasn't_ his first name. Would it be strange to call him Albert?

_Albert__..._ The Serpent cooed. She repeated on instinct. A parrot of her thoughts.

"Albert." She tested the name and she saw him freeze in his chair. He hardly dared to breathe.

She decided she didn't like the taste of "Albert". It was an awkward name. A name for someone less... something. Plus, it was no fun at all.

"Hmm... Al?"

His hand tightened around that stupid expensive pen, and she almost laughed. So easy.

So easy, Al.

Shamefully easy.

He turned to look at her from over his shoulder, tensing all over again when he noticed the tilt of her head, and the curious gleam in her eyes. He couldn't handle it. He stood, and without a word, briskly walked away.

"Hey, where are you going, _Al_? Don't you want to stay and chat, _Al_?"

He stopped, sending her a glare from the hallway. She had moved to flop down in his chair, feet on the floor, pushing herself back – that tilt of her head still there. Arrogant. Mocking him. He made a fist.

"Al, Destroyer of Worlds." She laughed. Laughed so hard she snorted.

He was shocked. One more confused look and then he disappeared.

She was amused by her own antics, spinning around in the chair, stopping to act like she was brooding over paperwork and lab reports.

The Serpent didn't know whether to be pleased or angry with her.

* * *

At first, when she glanced back and saw nothing but the dark columns of trees, she felt elated. Her heart swelled in her chest, nearly bursting with the thought of being free. It, however, told her not to get her hopes up.

_Do you really think he'd let his little lamb wonder off alone? You're everything to him. _

She rolled her eyes and scoffed, "Everything? Please. I'm only good until my uses run out."

_What if your 'uses' aren't the kind that 'run out'?_

She almost stopped, expression twisting into one of thought. What would that mean for her? She clawed at the inside of her pockets, brow furrowing. No, she didn't want to be his plaything forever.

"I hope they do."

* * *

She reached the car and dusted snow off the handle and the mirrors, jumping when something moved within the reflective surface. She let out a sigh when he stepped up behind her, so close she could feel that ridiculous heat radiating off his form. Fucking human furnace.

_I told you._

"Jesus Christ. Can't give it a break, huh Al?"

She could picture the smile on his lips as he reached around her to open the door, almost trapping her against him. She ducked under his arm and sent him a frosty look, ignoring the feeling spreading through her limbs. Clockwork.

"Never, Jill." He answered as he popped open the driver's side door and stepped back. "You look like you could use some company."

_What a gentlemen_, It cooed.

"I drive." She sounded serious, ready for an argument.

"You drive." He was already on the passenger's side.

No argument. Just amusement.

She didn't know which was worse.

They drove for almost an hour. The car was very cold. She wanted to turn on the heat. But his goddamn hand was big enough and fast enough to cover all the controls before she could reach them. His fingers were long – impossibly so, and quite pale. Prominent joints. Short, perfectly-filed nails. Hard hands. Capable hands.

She knew how they felt on her skin. Rough. Dangerous. Perfectly able to snap her bones with a quick flick of his wrist. She had had close encounters with those hands, and now, instead of striking fear in her, they incited other feelings. More unsettling feelings than fear.

The Serpent had introduced her to other ideas. Ideas about those hands. How those impossibly long, muscled fingers would feel.

Inside.

Enough. Shut up. Shut up!

She shivered.

* * *

She stepped into that familiar place, running her cold fingers along the dirty wall – leaving bright stripes. He didn't touch anything as he entered (no need for that tactile gratification). She found her way to the instrument, knew the layout of the backwoods general store, almost instinctual. She was a moth to a flame.

She dusted off the bench and lifted the seat, eyes lighting up at the messy stacks of music sheets that greeted her. She paged through a few and tossed a them back in. Nothing she wanted. Closing the seat, she sat down and positioned her fingers over the keys, pausing to look over at him.

She tested the old piano's tuning, stepping on the pedals and pressing random keys, pressing some more than once. It could be better. It could be worse.

She tried the first parts of any song that came to her, the notes filling the air. She remembered playing this when the world had still been alive. She remembered playing this before Africa, before the Spencer estate. When Chris was still around.

Chris.

She had played this for him once; she smiled a little. Bittersweet.

Without really thinking, her fingers had started to move, cleaning the keys as she pressed and stroked them. Leaving bits and pieces of her essence behind in the mark of a smeared fingerprint.

The music was like birdsong, making life where there was none. The sun was warm on her cheek from the window near to her, the snow still drifting steadily down outside. She wanted to live in the sun again. She had become sickly like him. She tired of being a nocturnal creature. Tired of the pit she called home. Tired of his Underworld. She wondered when her spring would come.

The song slowed, though it was not over. She hadn't heard him come near her, and her hand almost slipped from the keys when she felt his forearm brush her shoulder. He was standing so close it made her throat close, but she continued to play – trying to swallow down the sudden lump that had formed.

Her eyes watched her fingers as they skillfully performed their dance. This was the first time she had done something she fully enjoyed for 5 years. And the thought almost made her cry.

How long had she been playing? A few minutes? No - an hour.

Suddenly, his proximity and the heat of his gaze didn't matter anymore. She was completely engrossed. Focused. It felt surreal, like she wasn't really there. Her fingers were moving of their own accord.

The tempo rose again, and the song continued on. She could have played it forever, but her hands ached. It slowed again, and finally her fingers came to a standstill at the keys. Hovering above them, waiting another command. But she put them in her lap. He was still standing extremely close. When he walked off, she could breathe again.

She closed her eyes – it was all she could do to keep her composure.

Wordlessly she shut the piano up.

Persephone waiting for her spring.

* * *

He was frustrated.

She didn't know why, he never told her anything.

He held out his hand – face hidden underneath the table. A screw had come loose – a few actually, and he was trying to find them as well as fix whatever he'd done. It seemed to be a top priority to him. He picked strange things to fixate on.

When she asked how screws came out, he refused to answer, glared. She noticed his eyes on her throat.

God, he was so hard to understand.

_Maybe you don't really want to understand._

She put the screwdriver in his hand, watching the way it snapped closed as her fingers grazed his palm. Venus flytrap. He refused to speak to her that day – like she had done something wrong.

She sighed.

* * *

Her blood was warm and alive in her system, shooting through her as they stepped out of the store and were met with the sight of the creature lurking near their car. Its body glistened in the midday sun, snow melting from its form as a putrid steam curled up from its body. Wesker's nose wrinkled, she knew how much he hated that smell.

She backed up and into him.

It began to move toward them, toward the steps of the general store. It would devour them both.

He moved around her and stood in front of her.

What the hell was he doing?

She ignored his order to stay still and bolted for the car.

* * *

It focused its attention on him, black pustules twisting and coiling together like a million oozing snakes. He had no time to dodge when the first column of worms slammed into him, smashing him up against the wall of the store. He snarled, gripping slippery handfuls as he tore the wriggling mass apart. The Uroboros screeched and flung him into a rusting car.

He didn't feel pain like Jill might have, and the metal bent under his weight. It wobbled, nearly tipping onto its side, corroded metal grinding in on itself. It hurt, being thrown. He'd need several minutes to heal - some internal damage on that one, a few shattered bones. He stood. He didn't have several minutes.

This time he was quick, dodging the beast's arm and stabbing his hand into an orange bulb on its shoulder. The monster roared as it popped, pus gushing. He jumped back, the creature's appendage beginning to shrivel up as it fell off.

Enraged and determined, it melted into the snow. His eyes darted every direction. It materialized to his right and he moved out of the way, only to fall into the rest of it that had appeared behind him. The arm had grown back, and tangled about him. It lifted him up and smashed him face-first into the cement. It swung around and threw him through the windows of the storefront. He felt glass dig into his flesh, scoring him, embedding into him. He stumbled up, wheezing.

Slow. Too slow.

It was frustrated now. As was he. The glass in his back hurt.

He jumped back, putting power behind the leap and landing several feet away when it swung out again. He stood in front of the store, heaving.

He watched it hobble-slide toward him, pouring itself over everything.

Pathetic, wasteful creature. Was this really what he strove to bring into the world?

It lunged. He moved to dodge, failed. He was thrown again, sliding on his back, kicking at the arm. He felt the wet slither of the black worm-leeches wriggling under his clothes as the appendage shot forward and curled around his leg. He tried to tear them away - growled when the first one bit into his flesh.

The Tower.

He crushed several of them in his hands as he felt the ones that escaped him begin to burrow, eat, tunnel into him. Others followed, stretching the wound. He cried out, his tearing becoming desperate. The Uroboros drew closer as he fought with the leeches in his thigh. It was close enough to overtake him now, eat him alive. Its chest had opened up in its ecstasy, revealing the central orange globe that rested within. Its heart. He looked up.

In one motion, he put his fist through it. The creature wailed in agony and pulled away – leaving a few of its pieces to feast on him.

A new host.

The Uroboros shrank away and fell apart, leaving an ugly black stain in the snow.

He stumbled back, hissing as he clutched his leg. His pants were beginning to soak with his blood, and he could feel them moving in him. Nausea hit him first, the viruses beginning to duel in his system. He slumped back, his hold on life becoming weak as he lay in the snow. The awful smell in his nose, all around him, made his head spin.

He was already slipping into unconsciousness when she came back.

She came back for him.

* * *

Her hands shook against the wheel, the Serpent within her was coiling in on itself.

_GO BACK!_ It was screaming, hissing, wailing. It was nothing without him.

But, was she?

_You'll be dead within days if you let him go. You're weak. You can't take care of yourself. You need him! He - _

She shouted at the voice, slamming her foot on the brake and forcing the car to a painful stop. She swore and punched the dashboard. She was shaking as she put her forehead against the wheel. She could pay him back by letting him die - for all the pain and suffering he'd put her through.

He might not even die, she reasoned. He's a god, right? Maybe he'll be fine.

He will be fine. He's walked away from worse.

I could be free.

_But he could be there, waiting for you. Dying. Suffering. Go to him. He needs you._

She had thought herself colder than before, more reserved emotionally. But there was no way to explain the guilt she felt.

She might not be able to live with herself.

She turned the car around.

* * *

Dragging him to the car was a hell of a lot easier than getting him to the shelter. She had to move all of his weight, one hand on his chest and the other slung around his back to press against his side.

She hauled his near-lifeless body for a half mile.

Left him propped up against a tree.

She wrenched the hatch open.

"Hey, I'm going to need you to wake up, Wesker," she said breathlessly as she came to him.

He didn't respond. His hand was pressed to the wound on his leg, his eyes closed, head back. He wheezed when he breathed.

She reached out, took his face in her hands. "Hey! Come on! I can't carry you down there. Wake up!"

For the first time, she was afraid for him. She was afraid that he wouldn't wake up. That he would be buried in the ashes of his own mistake.

He shuddered when her cool hands met his skin. She gave his cheek a few rough pats and he grabbed her wrist. She gasped, thankful (for once) that his grip didn't loosen. His eyes were wide, glowing the brightest she had ever seen them.

"Let's go, Wesker. We can do this. Come on."

He glanced at the hole in the earth, let go of her.

His eyes were frighteningly bright, glowing despite the sun still high in the sky. What could that mean?

His injuries were taking too long to heal.

He looked at the wound, swallowed. He was in shock. He was giving up.

She took his face in her hands again, brought him back to her, fought her tears.

"I'm dying, Jill."

She sobbed, just once.

"No. No. You just need the shot, Al. So help me out, okay? Just help me out."

* * *

"Try as much as possible to be wholly alive, with all your might, and when you laugh, laugh like hell and when you get angry, get good and angry. Try to be alive. You will be dead soon enough."

- William Saroyan


	9. Chapter 9

_"Sometimes he caught himself listening to the sound of his own voice. He thought that in her eyes he would ascent to an angelical stature; and, as he attached the fervent nature of his companion more and more closely to him, he heard the strange impersonal voice which he recognised as his own, insisting on the soul's incurable lonliness. We cannot give ourselves, it said: we are our own."  
- James Joyce_

* * *

Cans rattled downstairs in the kitchen. Somebody was turning the place upside down.

It could not be Claire. She was never so loud.

Glass broke. The old mirror in the living room. Seven years bad luck.

The empty champagne bottle rolled out of bed as he darted to his feet. The bad luck had begun for whoever had broken the mirror – the bottle fell on carpet, soft enough to dull the impact.

Chris was dressed and by the door within the minute; jacket, boots, weapons.

The intruder advanced, but from the sounds of it, was still on the ground level.

The sleeping quarters were situated on the first floor. Chris took a glance out of the window. He could see no tracks in the snow, but that gave him little ease of mind. The wind whipped in rage outside.

He crept to the adjacent room. The sheets on Claire's bed were undisturbed. If he hadn't known better, he would have never guessed that she had just slept here.

Poor Claire, her face so pale.

She stood beside the bed, alarmed. She had heard it, too.

"It's downstairs," she whispered. "With all the supplies."

Let it play with the supplies, he thought, if that meant it wouldn't be playing with _them._

"Uroboros?" The word, hushed, dreadful. The same tone as five years ago, when Ouroboros had been no more than an ancient symbol of a serpent eating its own tail. A rumored doomsday project.

The absence of steps confirmed the intruder's nature. Chris nodded. Uroboros.

Claire waited for his orders. When it came down to business, even the characteristic Redfield hot-headedness made way for survival instinct.

In the kitchen, Uroboros rampaged. Hungry. Mobile. Angry.

They usually hibernated.

Why not this one?

* * *

It was an entire Pack. He made the acquaintance of the other member while he stuffed clothes into his rucksack.

He had not counted on an audience joining him.

Worms wriggled. There was an unnatural gurgle drawing from its slimy mass. Famished. _Aroused._

Chris took a step back. Uroboros advanced, demanding.

His back touched the wall.

He was cornered.

Pustules ruptured. It drew closer slowly, as if every second of terror it caused on him would turn his flesh a tad sweeter. Somewhere underneath the writhing he thought he recognized eyes... perhaps a mouth.

Translucent skin pulled over rotten skull. Uroboros never devoured its first host completely.

This way, it retained a wicked form of "personality". A visage of Death.

* * *

He hurled first his bag, then his own body out of the window.

The snow did not absorb the force of the fall as he had hoped it would.

Blood marked his trail like breadcrumbs.

The Pack, yearning like vultures, pursued him into the night.

* * *

A shard of broken glass was firmly lodged in his biceps. He had no doubt that the smell would rouse many monsters from their winterly slumber.

He extracted the offending object, frozen fingers sliding on the glass. Holding it up, a broken reflection stared back at him.

He clumsily wrapped a bandage around his arm.

Claire stood sentry by the door. His distraction had given her the necessary time to evacuate the house. She escaped unharmed.

He watched her shake in the cold; she was hardened, yet so fragile for this new world. He considered the divine injustice for trapping her in a Hell like this.

What had she done to deserve a punishment of such nature?

_

* * *

_

_Too many have died._

* * *

Chris did not sleep well in the following days. Their supplies, lost, depleted. His stomach grumbled in abuse, his feet sore and numb from hiking in the snow.

Frostbite?

No. He could still move his toes. Skin was an ornery red, not black... for now.

Uroborii had the sharpest senses. Once it picked up your trail, it seldom abandoned it again. A Gila Monster.

He couldn't say how long he walked. The wound on his arm clotted quickly, but food was scarce these days and the mere memory of blood's scent would keep the Pack motivated for long.

Chris did not dare to loot any buildings on the way. He was in too much of a hurry. Every minute spent not walking was a minute gained for Uroboros. But ultimately he knew that he would have to stop soon.

Sometimes fatigue was the only thing reminding him that he was still alive.

* * *

Pringles. Paprika. The hot stuff.

Chris had never been a fan of spicy food. He remembered going to an indian restaurant on one occasion though.

He remembered it quite well.

It was long before the world had gone down the drain. Jill put in a surprise visit. Very late. She didn't say, and he didn't ask, but she had been crying - probably as recently as the ride over. He took her to the restaurant because he knew she liked curry. He also knew that she liked to hide. Especially her emotions. Once the hot food set in, she could finally stop pretending that her flushed cheeks came from the low temperatures outside.

She cried at the dinner table between bites of Rajma.

He didn't know what to say. So he said:

"It's the heat. The chili."

She nodded and wept.

They didn't talk a lot that evening. Not in the restaurant and not after they returned to his apartment.

She cried for the relationship she gave up on. For the Raccoon City incident. For the uncertain future.

And then they did other things, to stop her crying. Stop her wallowing.

The remembrance of some of those things they did brought a flush to _his_ face.

And it wasn't from Paprika Pringles.

* * *

For the rest of the day, he could not get Jill Valentine off his mind.

It seemed very inappropriate to think of her. Especially in _that_ way. You didn't feel that kind of attraction for dead people. Not if you weren't a necrophiliac. He felt it somehow defiled her memory.

But he hadn't thought of Jill in a long time. All those emotions came unwrapped now, sending currents up and down his spine in regular intervals.

He remembered all kinds of things.

How she looked - teary-eyed, face flushed. With her hair in that messy ponytail.

Her hair after he let it down.

He remembered the scar on her collarbone.

How she had first told him about it.

How he had first touched it.

And then kissed it.

First feeling. Then claiming. All of her.

* * *

A Pack does not know what the word reverie means. Even if it did, it would be of no importance, little consequence.

Memories aren't crucial for evil existence.

But food is. An easy catch is dire, especially when it is preoccupied with fantasies of its own, and distracted.

* * *

Squidgy and slurping. The tell-tale sounds of Uroboros. If you think you hear someone trudge through ankle-deep mud in rubber boots, then it is one or more monsters approaching.

* * *

It was not muddy rubber boots that saved Chris' life, but his sister's warning cry as worms squirmed through the store entrance.

He leapt from his seat and ran for her. The Pack was barely an arms-length away from her. He charged, reflex, and pushed her out of the way.

The wet slap registered only after he hit the Bestsellers shelf, buried in the midst of fancy paperback novels.

He was on his feet in an instant, brushing away at his clothing like a madman. Worms preferred to stick to untainted flesh if they had the option. Once they got under your skin, it was game over.

Chris was particularly grateful for the heavy winter as he removed the last attacker, throwing it to the ground. It died in silence, having been given no mouth by its god to clamor in pain. Detached from the main body, worms didn't live a full five minutes.

The Pack advanced. It ignored Claire, who stood closer to it, and focused its attention on the strange individual darting between the aisles.

He let it approach the over-turned shelf. Then he reached for the nearest bottle of Vodka.

He threw it at the creature and the bottle broke on the floor in front of the beast. It remained unfazed.

When he threw the lighter, Uroboros recoiled in a hail of fire, burning with the last works of Stephen King and the raft of marshmallows beside it.

Chris and Claire ran.

* * *

"Oh God, Claire."

"It's okay, bro. It was a close call, but we... we're okay."

"Why did you let it get so close to you? You could have been-"

"But I'm not. You saved me. I'm okay now."

"Just... just be more careful next time, okay? I don't know what I would do if I lost you."

A smile. Barely a hint of it, yet so reassuring.

"You'll never lose me. Promise."

* * *

In the early days the armies tried to keep the situation under control. They understood that fire was the only means to harm this new plague. Unfortunately, Uroboros also understood that soldiers lost their danger as soon as they were infected.

So it started eating even when it wasn't hungry.

Claire lived in Oregon. She told him it was because of work, but Chris knew it was because of that piece of shit Leon S. Kennedy.

To his credit though, the man who had been intimate with his baby sister had been one of the first to die. He had gone down a hero, protecting the President and his family. Frontline casualty.

It was all on TV. It was all that was on TV.

Connections died a few days later. Chaos followed. The Earth screamed, 24/7.

* * *

Chris reached Oregon three weeks after the initial outbreak. BSAA headquarters were on the other side of the continent. He had kept with the squad for the first days, when experts presumed they were only dealing with a local leak. Once it surfaced all across the US, he didn't even bother to hand in his resignation.

He went straight for her. Or as straight as one could. 2010 was nothing but a replay of Raccoon City on a biggest possible scale. One virus got switched out for another and a couple of million additional souls were added for show businesses. It was the same chaos. Streets were blocked, cars crashed, those who were not infected, crazy with fear.

* * *

When Chris reached her city, he was well past the initial shock. Most were dead. Uroboros was berserk with gluttony. It couldn't get enough.

By the time he arrived at her flat, his hopes for finding her were close to zero. The apartment complex was deserted. Uroboros had wiped this part of the city.

But Claire would be clever enough to leave him a note. She knew he would be searching for her.

He was very surprised to find she had not left.

He was crying by the time he saw the note.

He held her in his arms long after the distant screams faded and humanity handed the reigns of the world to its viral successor.

He promised that he would always protect her, no matter what happened.

He swore that he would never leave her alone again.

* * *

It's too much. This life is too much. I can't wake up to screams each morning.

This time, there will be no happy ending. Too many have died.

I saw their faces. They're dead, but their suffering continues. They are trapped in that black mass, like slaves of Death.

I want to end it. I don't want to be like them. I want to be at peace.

This won't take me to Heaven, but at least I'll escape Hell.

I am so sorry.

Please don't find me.

* * *

_"Alone. Yes, that's the key word, the most awful word in the English tongue. Murder doesn't hold a candle to it and hell is only a poor synonym."  
-Stephen King_


	10. Chapter 10

_"And as is he who unwills what he willed, and because of new thoughts changes his design, so that he quite withdraws from beginning, such I became on that dark hillside: wherefore in my thought I abandoned the enterprise which had been so hasty in the beginning."_

_- Canto II: Beatrice_

* * *

He watched her unconscious, fetal form. He had gone too far.

His anger, too strong.

His regret now deep.

She still breathed, though labored and irregular.

Her arm lay at an unnatural angle, pulled cleanly from the socket.

Her jaw was relaxed, but broken. Back teeth – chipped, shattered, cracked.

Her face was a mess of blood.

Kneeling beside her, he rested his guilty hands on her sacrificed body.

* * *

The arm slid back in easily. An audible pop of bone fitting into bone. He was careful.

* * *

His bare fingers gingerly pulled pieces of tooth from her mouth, stopping to feel the side of her still tongue. He had never touched a tongue before. He counted the bloody gaps, his fingertips gliding over the ridges of her small even teeth. Three molars gone.

* * *

The jaw would heal. It would need help, but it would heal.

* * *

His attention turned to her split lip. A striking wound. So strangely perfect, it looked as if he'd painted her like that. He would save her, he thought then. He would play the role of the knight.

They were the stuff of some macabre fairytale.

Would he dare, he wondered as he stared at her – the fallen, abused princess.

His mouth covered hers warily.

It was a chaste kiss. A brushing of lips. But how it _seared_ itself into his memory.

He watched her, waiting for something, for anything.

But Jill was not Sleeping Beauty.

She lay unresponsive in the pale arms of the monster prince.

* * *

He kept her under. He pumped her full of P30 despite the steady feed from the chest plate. She nearly lived on steroids alone for a week.

The fractured jaw bone knitted together adequately after five days. Torn ligaments and tattered muscle fibers weaved in her shoulder, which had healed completely by the fourth day. The absent molars could not be mended by P30; implants would be necessary.

On the Seventh Day, he roused her from the induced coma.

He told her that Chris Redfield was the animal who had broken her.

He would tell her the lie many more times over the years.

She had no choice but to pretend to believe.

She could remember nothing of Wesker's fury, except for muscle memory, reflex reaction – a flinch, or a pulling back – when he raised his voice to her. Eventually, even that died, replaced by something else.

And after the bruises on her face faded, he could recall only the feel of his lips against hers.

* * *

He let himself drop when he'd gotten halfway down the ladder.

His body hit the cement floor, knocking the breath from him.

Jill climbed down after him, stepping over him, going straight for the injection on his desk.

She jammed the needle into the top of his good thigh.

She watched him anxiously.

She was breathing hard. Her heart thudded with fear. It pounded in her eardrums.

Still he bled. His goddamn blood all over the both of them.

She cried. Wiped her hands on her jeans, over and over, neurotic. She crouched next to him, stared at his face.

"I gave you the shot, Al. Wake up. You're scaring me."

He didn't move.

"Please. Please don't go. I'm afraid to be alone."

* * *

She turned it over in her hands.

"It's nice. A little heavy. Too big for me."

The new gun glittered in the range light. Practice shots fired all around them.

He scoffed. "Well, hold it correctly, Valentine."

She palmed the Samurai Edge, testing her grip, easing her finger on and off the trigger guard. She had to reach. Truly, her hands were too small for the weapon.

"Loosen up."

She tried. He used his foot to nudge her legs apart. Her eyes darted to him, then back to the gun.

"More."

She sighed, adjusted.

"Remember, thumb open, not curled. How long will it take to break you of that?"

She twitched at the idea. There were many ways to "break" a person and she was sure the Captain knew them all.

He moved behind her, inspected her stance.

"May I?"

She nodded.

She felt his heat, even then.

He was very close but kept that inch between them - that semblance of professionalism.

He found her hip, pulled it back with strong fingers. Her spine straightened at the unexpected contact.

"Square this. Here and here." Next, he moved her shoulder. "Shoulders over hips."

She nodded again.

"I really hate cleaning up the mistakes of poor trainers." He sounded bored. "Thumb, Jill."

Instantly, she relaxed it.

"Better."

He reached down the length of her arm, then pulled away. "Are you comfortable with this?" He was self-aware. Almost... concerned.

"Yeah. You're fine." She cleared her throat. A nervous habit.

His hands wrapped around hers - the shooting and supporting. She stared at the way their fingers looked together.

"Gentle. Yes." His voice so close to her ear. "Have you ever... milked anything, Jill?"

The direction of the conversation made her sweat. She wasn't sure why. She felt electric. "Yeah."

"Firing a gun should feel like that." He showed her, his hands over hers. A rippling squeeze. "Feel it?"

She hesitated. He squeezed again. Then again.

"Breathe," he said quietly. "Spread your legs."

_Sultry? Wesker? _She walked her feet out.

His mint-breath on her face, his heat behind her. Chills.

"Are you ready, Valentine?"

She swallowed.

"Milk."

She fired perfectly. The recoil pushed her into him; her back to his chest.

He was still for a moment.

His thumb rubbed hers. She uncurled it.

And then he and his gun were gone.

No one in the office believed her when she told them he'd let her fire his precious custom-made.

She thought of it occasionally - the awkwardness of the moment, the sensuality of it.

She took out the memory and studied it when she was alone.

* * *

He came back to her as the virus coursed through him.

Revived.

She watched the hole in his leg. Beneath the surface of the wound, black worms writhed.

Tentatively, she reached out.

His hand gripped her forearm.

"Do not, Jill."

"They have to come out. I'll be quick."

She reached with the other hand and he cursed at her bull-headedness.

The worms recoiled from her, some slithering out of him to avoid her touch.

They sensed her immunity, feared her immunity.

He did too.

* * *

He was coherent as she pulled the worm from his gaping thigh. Pain. White-hot.

"Bitch!"

She punched him then. In the mouth.

And instead of feeling as if her fist had met with steel, he was knocked back by it. By _her_.

For the time being, he was mortal. Weakened. _Victimized_ by his own plague.

"Stay still, Al," she demanded and yanked again on the last, stubborn Uroboros.

He lay on his back, his tongue touching his lip.

An hour later, the empty gash closed.

* * *

Almost medically, she stripped him of his blood-soaked clothes. First, the shirt. Then, the boots and socks. She paused.

He had such long white toes. The second longer than the first.

Morton's Foot.

She smiled at the thought of Wesker wearing socks. Or even having toes. Especially _long_ toes.

"There is _nothing_ humorous about any of this." Venom in his voice.

She suppressed the grin then. Her deft hands found the fly of his pants.

He pushed her away with his foot, the long toes touching her.

"I'll handle it from here, _Jill_."

She watched as he undid the button. He looked up angrily.

She left the room.

He slumped over and gasped in pain.

It was much worse than he would let on.

* * *

It had been a very long time since he had thrown up.

He wondered if it was even called "throwing up" when one didn't eat.

It burned his throat, mouth, tongue – the phlegm and bile… and something else.

Uroboros.

Two days. Two days of lying on the cement and waiting for more punishment.

He had been ravished by it – his own black magic.

As another wave of nausea rolled over him, he sat up.

His mouth watered constantly. Swallowing made the feeling in his stomach worse so he spit into the bowl. Waited. Eyes squeezed shut.

And then, there it was – the pinching sensation right beneath his jaw. It wouldn't be long now.

Every sore muscle contracted with the effort of his heaving.

* * *

Nothing could drown out the sound of his sickness.

She heard each cough and gag. The occasional running of water. It all echoed, reverberated in the small bathroom and then carried throughout the hatch.

He had walled himself up.

She wondered if he was dying. If this was just some hideous, drawn-out poisoning.

A rat who had taken the bait.

* * *

On the evening of the Third Day of Suffering, he did not vomit for hours.

The sound of the shower almost scared her.

Jill set down the can of pineapples (unearthed). She sucked the fork clean and laid it on the lab table.

Romance novel abandoned (title: _Lover Awakened_). More interesting events were afoot now.

He _lived_.

She stalked down the hallway to him.

* * *

She did not knock – he wouldn't respond.

She'd knocked for three days without reply.

Slow turn of the door knob.

She was surprised to find he'd unlocked it.

* * *

All of the light bulbs, except one, were unscrewed and lay on the counter.

Tired of the fluorescence.

He was in the far corner of the shower. The hot water pouring over his head, down defeated shoulders, into the hands in his lap.

Reptilian eyes looked out at her from under soaking white hair.

"You came back." His voice was gravelly with disuse.

She closed the door and leaned on it.

"Why?"

She shook her head, looked down. Nothing but the sound of the water hitting the floor.

"Why did you come back? For _this_? For the life you hate?"

And then he saw her.

His eyes started at her delicate feet and travelled up - up over the curves of her ankles, calves, thighs, up over the gentle flare of hips, waist, pausing on the swell of her breasts, up over the scar, clavicle, throat, finally her face - sharp chin, soft jaw, frowning mouth, haunted eyes.

"I'm alive," he said, seeing her for the first time in fifteen years. Seeing her as he had: that night on the doorstep, that time when he'd taught her how hold the beloved Samurai Edge, that occasion when she'd stumbled into the office, soaked from the rain, laughing... radiant.

"I'm alive."

* * *

She had been tossed around by the storm that morning. Spring. 1997.

The others greeted her, Chris the loudest. She laughed.

He watched her strip off the wet jacket, run her hands through her hair. Her pants, soaked up to the knee, dripped on the linoleum floor.

Someone would fall on that later, he just knew it. And then he'd have to file an incident report. And then he'd have to follow-up with a workplace safety meeting. And so on and so forth.

But _she_ puddled and dripped and rained so lovely.

She was like May - daffodils, grass, dew.

She shook his November mood to its core.

He was startled to find her looking at him, smiling, while he watched her.

As per usual, he reacted inappropriately.

"You're late again, Valentine. And clean up that mess you made."

Her smile dropped.

Everyone's smile dropped.

They all looked at him.

Embarrassed, he shut his office door and hid from her spring for the rest of the day.

* * *

He lay down in the shower, cheek to the tile, under her gaze. Hot water on him, over him. He was a hard line of hairless wet skin. Long toes spread as he stretched.

* * *

Pushed up, over the drain, coughing and retching again. She was next to him. Her hand soothed his back as he purged what remained.

He was pitiful when he was ill.

* * *

She left her clothes on, crawled in with him. What she wore became transparent. She laid with him on the floor of the shower.

* * *

They were facing each other. The water was losing its heat. His eyes were closed. His foot hooked around her ankle, rubbed up her calf slowly, then was still. She touched his collar bone. Skittish, curious fingers. Her hand measured the slope of his shoulder, her fingers stroked each rib like the keys of a piano, finally resting on his pale side.

* * *

The water was very cold. They pressed together. Entwined. His thigh over hers. He hid his face in her throat; his nose in the hollow where her pulse could be seen by the eye. Her fingers threaded in the fine short hairs on the nape of his neck. His thumb traced an invisible circle on her hipbone.

He breathed with her, the same as her. Hesitant, deep, slow breaths. Her cautious lungs did not give away the heart that beat cruelly, beat _hard _in her fragile cage of ribs.

He moved. His lips against the scar on her wrist.

Her back arched. She hadn't been touched this way in years.

_"For you."_ A sudden confession.

"Tell me."

"For you. I came back for you," she sighed.

"Again." His hand sliding up her thigh.

* * *

He found what he had done all those years before. He kissed her there, on the scars of her chest. Over and over.

It was as close to an apology as Jill would ever get.

* * *

He set fire to her with his mouth - up her throat, under her jaw, teeth grazing her chin. And then he waited for her, his breath on her lips.

_Now, Jill._

She felt his thigh tighten around hers.

_Finish it._

Less than an inch between them.

_Give me this one liberty._

She could not meet him there, could not cross that inch (cross the miles) to him, though her hand felt his body tremble.

_Jill._

But she would not.

* * *

The feel of him (so wrong, familiar, and needful) became too much and she left him, as silently as she had come to him. Wet footprints across the hall, to her bunk, shut the door.

* * *

"_You're late again, Valentine. And clean up that mess you made."_

_

* * *

_

He liked the frigid water that rained down on him. It murdered the memory of her warmth. Tomorrow, he could hate her again.

Tomorrow, when he shed this weak part of himself and could start anew.

* * *

He looked through the microscope. He moved, acted, _was_ as if Uroboros had never happened. She stood on the other side of the table, waiting. He did not acknowledge her.

"How are you feeling?" she finally asked.

He did not reply. She looked away then and her fingers idly played with his fancy pen. He grabbed her arm and pulled her down to the table - painful.

"You are _never_ to speak of last night, Jill. It would be best if you were to forget it completely."

She felt the delicate bones in her wrist moving, grinding under his force.

"Do we understand one another?"

She nodded.

But they would not forget.

It would remain raw for both of them.

Until a new memory was made, to forgive this one.

He let go of her then and studied her face. She was blank; she'd gotten so good at hiding. She turned to leave.

"Oh, and Jill?"

Their eyes met.

"_Necessita c'induce, e non diletto_."

He lied to himself because honesty was such a dangerous, fickle thing.

Like a snake.

* * *

_"At times I was like a stranger to him; at times he surrendered completely. Then when I threw my arms around him, everything changed, and I embraced a cloud."_

_- Cordelia, The Seducer's Diary_


	11. Chapter 11

"The face of the enemy frightens me only when I see how much it resembles me."

- anonymous

* * *

There were few times in her life where she had known true fear.

Every instance was centered around him.

This one was different though.

His blood was on her hands. The Serpent was in turmoil, but said nothing. It sent emotions tightening in her throat, dropping into her stomach. She was overflowing.

There was one thing she did not know how to deal with – parting. The fear of being alone in a world she couldn't even begin to truly understand. Yet she had helped to shape it, this new place. She had been the right hand of Satan.

"Al." She knew he was awake, but his name needed to be spoken aloud. It needed to ring in her ears, to let her know that he was still there.

He looked up at her, slowly, from under heavy blond lashes. She smoothed back his hair. Became unraveled again when she saw that she'd left a streak of his own red on his face, where she'd touched.

"I'm dying."

"No. No no no..." She held his hand. Squeezed his limp fingers. "Don't go."

She felt as though he was slipping through her fingers. One second at a time.

Bleeding out. One drop at a time.

* * *

She hated how they fled from her, quickly burrowing deeper into his flesh before she could get her hands around them. They could sense it, her immunity, and were not going to come out easily.

He was feverish, his skin hotter than she could ever imagine. He was covered in sweat, not to mention in a terribly foul mood. He would jerk his leg from her or slap at her hands if she happened to catch one – his sensitive flesh not taking well to the tugging within him.

At first she had been afraid of him turning on her, but now she was just frustrated. He didn't want her help, but he was getting it anyway.

He tried to pull away again, this time she threw her arm around his leg and held it against her, glaring up at him.

"Stop it, Al."

He looked like he wanted to protest, lip beginning to curl back before it settled again and he remained silent.

She waited until one returned, bulging against his skin. A snake in the grass. It moved slowly, nearing the edge of his torn flesh.

The rounded tip of its head (was that its head? she would never be sure) appeared. She let it bite into him again, the insides of the wound not nearly as good as the edges. Spread first, devour later.

Her hand shot out and grabbed hold of it. It wriggled, and she felt as though she had caught a fish – wet and slippery with his blood and the pus it oozed. She jerked, pulling most of it out. This was the last. The others had disintegrated into slick black puddles on the cement.

It came loose with a wet pop. He had called her a name over that one. And she punched him.

He began to heal after that. Her fingers – against his inner thigh, inside of the ripped pants – moved, stroking his skin in an effort to soothe it. To soothe him.

He tensed but didn't pull away. And she didn't stop what she was doing. The Serpent willed her not to.

* * *

"Up on the table."

She obeyed.

"Lay down. Put your arms at your sides and don't move."

She obeyed.

She would have cried if she could, but tears hadn't been a part of the orders. For hours, that asshole and his bitch had been testing the continuing effects of the P30. Hours. They wanted to see how the miracle drug affected her stamina in combat, her concentration, her abilities. And then, for sheer cruelty, Jill was certain, the Italian slut wanted to "examine her person for any visible physical alterations".

When she thought back, far enough back, she realized that the Serpent hadn't always been with her. She would have liked the company during those situations, but the Serpent had only shown up for her guilt and Wesker's blame.

In a Tricell lab, before the fall of mankind and the reign of Uroboros – she was laying on a cold, metal table in nothing but a towel. She had been hatched from her year-long sleep a week before, wet and pathetic, as she fell from her nightmares into the arms of her enemies.

She remembered Excella, looking over and watching her sip something from a Styrofoam cup – leaving a lipstick kiss on the rim when she set it back down.

Wesker was on the other side of her, not far off, but far enough so that he appeared disinterested with the whole affair. Excella was the first to approach, remove the towel, and send the shame burning through her veins.

Excella took notes. Took notes about her _body._ The way she looked, the color of her hair, her weight, her height, her figure – offering her advice on how she could have laid off the sweets. She told her her flaws were grotesque. Too many scars. Hips too narrow. Thighs too big. Breasts too small.

"You really didn't make any effort to take care of yourself, did you? Unfortunate." Excella mused, clicking her pen and humming as she wrote down more. Wesker's fingers drummed ever-louder on the counter top.

Then, she looked at her face.

"Your nose is awfully flat. Are you a fighter? You look like that kind of animal, you disgusting little beast."

Of course, there was no answer, except for a low, bored exhale from Wesker. Or could it have been anger?

"You have rather rodent-like features. Hmmm. Perhaps a raccoon? Yes. A raccoon."

Raccoon. Strange coincidence. Raccoon City. Raccoon Jill.

Excella opened her mouth again, about to make a comment about her hair – that was the only attribute she hadn't mentioned. The final frontier.

Wesker stepped forward, "That's enough, Excella. You have the data."

The Italian stopped short – looked up at him with surprise. He had sounded so calm, so in control, so _absolute_. Excella pursed her lips, drew back, and retreated. He didn't say anything to Jill as he left, instructing the doctors to restrain her once the P30 wore off.

All her inadequacies had been laid out in the open, yet he hadn't made a single, snide comment.

Maybe he didn't think they were true.

* * *

"What is taking you so long?"

She jumped at the sound of his voice, nearly dropping the syringe.

"Shit!" She turned a glare on him.

He would have smiled if all of his energy wasn't devoted to just holding himself up in the doorway. It was only hours after the attack, and he was already trying to move around, his clothes still damp with his blood.

"You aren't supposed to be up."

He looked like he was about to say something sarcastic, something Wesker, but he refrained.

"Do you know what's going on? Inside of me?" He was picky about his word choice. Admitting that something was wrong with him would do no good.

"You're infected with Uroboros, but your other virus doesn't want to share."

He squinted at her.

She watched as his eyes moved to the syringe in her hands. Hungry. Impatient. She knew he always felt his best right after an injection. Just like she did.

The line between them was blurring, murky, like a glass wall. She could see him on the other side, and couldn't tell where he started and she began. Uncertainty settled in her stomach.

"Don't we have to be careful with this shit? Can't you OD on it?"

He didn't reply. Just held out his arm.

She reached for him, the temperature of his skin making her flinch. She emptied the vial and walked him back to his room, allowing him to lean against her every so often. Strangely intimate.

She spent the rest of the day hiding, letting him suffer as she suffered.

* * *

Lying in her room the first night of his sickness, her mind had clicked on.

He was weak, even with the pustules out of his leg. He was perpetually in a state of semi-consciousness, and was very sensitive to light and sound. More so than usual. He hadn't had an injection for a few hours and was out cold. Now was the perfect time for an escape. She could take everything that she needed and leave. Wiggle through his loose grip.

But of course, it was there, wrestling with her on the matter.

_What happened to you not being able to survive on your own? Why would this be any different?_

She ignored it as she got up, grabbing her duffel bag and beginning to stuff it with clothes. It could try to dissuade her all it wanted, but her decision was final.

She was going to run from the fallen god. Vomiting himself to death in the bathroom.

_He almost gave his life to protect you, and this is how you repay him?_

"He'll heal."

_Are you certain? You've never seen him infected with Uroboros. _

She couldn't help it, she paused in closing up the bag. So what if he died?

"One less thing I have to worry about out there, him coming to hunt me down."

_You are not as strong as you think you are. You cannot let go on a whim. You will come back to him. You always have._

"What the fuck is that supposed to mean?" she snapped, but the Serpent had quieted. Slithering back into the darkness of her subconscious mind. She ground her teeth, staring at the bag in her hands.

No, this was it. She was leaving.

Now or never.

She made her way to the ladder, stopping at the bathroom door to listen as he dry heaved. She wondered if he would learn a lesson from this.

You can't teach God anything.

She abandoned Hell for Earth.

* * *

A week later, he came into her room (cell), tossed something at her feet (a present?).

"Put this on."

She didn't even have time to spit an insult before he left. Obedient. She picked up the material, stretched it, surprised to feel how tough it was. Light and pliable, textured like blue alligator scales – it had a body-length zipper down the front.

She put it on, flexing her fingers and rolling her shoulders, trying to adjust to the snug fit.

She didn't have a mirror to see how it looked on her, but Excella's words made her tug on the material on her thighs. It snapped back into place, stinging her. The sudden, jarring pain kept her from thinking about how _big_ they were, how _flat_ her nose was, how _raccoonish_ she looked. She did it again, under her arm – _snap_.

Her stomach – _snap_. Her ribs, chest, legs, lower back – _snap_.

It was a glove to her body. The most perfect thing she'd ever worn.

Wesker came in, pausing when he saw her pop her thigh again. She looked up at him, snapped it over her chest; he took a step toward her. She wanted to say something, but she wasn't sure what - thank you, perhaps? No. That would be strange. Fuck you, maybe? Too harsh at that moment. But something between those two, for sure.

She snapped it again.

"Stop that."

Her hands dropped to her sides - her body stinging pleasantly all over. He told her to follow him – taking careful note of the fist clenched at his side.

They moved through the intricate metal tunnels, passing Majini and scientist alike, all working in the same building. She wondered what the risk of infection was.

Before she had a chance to realize where they were going they were already there. There was a special wing that Excella liked to work in, she said it was "cleaner."

Probably because Jill's own cell was at the other end of the facility.

_Bitch._

The door slid open, they stepped in, and she did her best to make herself stand almost directly behind him. She could almost _hear_ the dazzling grin the other woman sent his way. Repulsive.

"Hello, _Albert_. You wanted to show me something?" Excella drawled, her accent making every syllable slow and sensual.

Without a word he stepped aside, ushering Jill forward with a nod. He had been putting her through rigorous, frequent training for that - interpretation of body language. She found she could now unconsciously react to everything he did.

She looked straight ahead, into Excella's face, which went from her usual seductive arrogance to dead flat in 0 seconds as she looked her over. She put her hand on her hip as she soaked up _every_ _single fucking_ detail the suit had to offer.

She knew that stance. Excella was pissed.

When Excella's eyes returned to her face, she saw something in them that she had never seen before. She looked..._ nervous_ and _angry_.

_Jealous_.

"Alright... so you put the little rat in some new clothes." She sounded so _irritated_.

"Do you like it, Excella? You usually have so much to say about her. Tell her how she looks."

She watched Excella's jaw tighten, watched her cross her arms defensively. He continued.

"Combat will be effortless for her. It's light and durable, and made from the same material as my own clothing." He gestured to himself. "We'll make quite a stunning pair, don't you agree? I've always wanted a partner to fight alongside me, someone willing to do _anything_ for me. And she's proven herself so very loyal to those that matter to her, haven't you Jill?"

Jill stood completely still.

Excella huffed audibly, but remained silent for a minute. She was apparently very disturbed by the new look, by Wesker's words.

Jill wanted so badly to see how she looked in the suit, her eyes darting around, searching for a reflective surface.

He was moving, stepping around the lab table that separated Excella from them, letting his fingers drag across the spotless surface. Tall black swans on a glass lake.

She watched the Italian shift nervously, backing up against the surrounding counters as he came closer. There was a _clink_ and then the shatter of glass – she must have knocked over a drying test tube rack.

"You look like you have something to say to Jill, Excella." There was an note of danger in his tone, a warning, as the fingers skating over the polished steel table came to rest on the edge of the counter by Excella's hip. Despite the fact that he could break her neck just by blowing on it, she hardened, and retorted.

It was a bad move on her part.

"I don't have-"

His hand was around her throat, squeezing and shoving her back, bending her backward at an odd angle. She gasped and choked, nails digging into him, trying to pry him off. Jill didn't move, and she found herself wondering if she would have while not under the influence of the P30.

Probably not.

He let her go when the desperate scratching became weak, letting her drop to the floor as her hands touched her throat, gasping and choking on air.

"_Cazzo! Si potrebbe avere uccidermi! È figlio pazzo di una cagna_!" She cried, sucking in large gulps of air as she struggled to her feet. Leaning against the counter, Excella cursed again when glass from the broken test tubes bit into her palm.

Wesker continued to hover in her space, staring down at her without expectancy, but she knew better than to just walk away now.

"_Scuso fin da ora._" he responded. His voice chilled the room.

Her glare would have melted most people, but Wesker was an iceberg.

_God himself could not sink this ship_.

His leg shifted, knee bending – threatening a kick. The hull cracked, Excella relented. Turning that smoldering glare on Jill, she apologized (with hesitation) and moved away from him. Safe.

For the moment.

Seeming satisfied, he backed off and led Jill out of the room to the training area.

* * *

It was dark out, and freezing. Even with her turtle neck and her sweater, the cold seeped in faster than she could produce enough body heat to keep it away. Her teeth chattered, and she fumbled to get the flashlight out.

The trees rose above her like dark, gnarled statues. The wind whistled through bare branches. She shuddered again with the cold and the night. A moonless night. No stars to guide her way.

She flicked on the flashlight and began the walk to the car.

She found her fear of being followed (a haunting pair of crimson eyes floating in the darkness) to be ridiculous. She had dealt with worse things. Demons and spirits were not something she should have been afraid of.

With the numbness overcoming her, a deep sense of loneliness settled as well. A noiseless, patient spider. Waiting to spin its web and become rooted.

Tiny voices – words of doubt.

_Go back._

She trudged on through the hard snow.

* * *

She felt alone.

Her breath fanned out thickly, lingering on the air before being whisked away as she moved. Hair, loose from the ponytail, lifted with the frigid breeze that rolled across her shoulders.

She worked her cold hand up through her sweater, sucking in a hard breath when it brushed her warm skin and laid above her left breast – feeling the steady thumping of her heart beneath the ragged scars from her past.

She was standing in the middle of the road, right across from where Wesker had been attacked. The glass from the shattered window cracked under her feet as she walked toward the store.

The snow had turned to a driving sleet.

* * *

"Goddammit."

She watched the flashlight clatter to the floor and roll away from her, covering her in temporary darkness. She hurried after it, sliding to the floor to fish it out from under a shelf. Something moved in the inky blackness ahead of her and she froze. Her hand trembled.

She swallowed, looking up slowly as a figure appeared at the end of the isle. Human.

She didn't know what she was more afraid of.

She snatched the flashlight and scrambled to her feet, pointing it menacingly at her strange company.

She stopped, almost dropping the flashlight again. Her mouth dropped open unwillingly. No, it couldn't...

The Serpent swelled within her. A tight coiling, the clicking of scales.

He was just as tall, but not nearly as broad as she remembered. His usual stubble of facial hair replaced with an unkempt beard. His hair was long enough to hang in front of his eyes, and his clothes were torn and dirty. She was fairly certain she could smell him, but didn't stop think on it.

Her mouth tried to form his name, bring it – and him – into existence. But she couldn't do it. Emotions she didn't even know she had burst forth from deep inside her. She didn't know whether to laugh or cry.

All these years she believed him dead. Unable to survive in a world devoid of all human life. But here he was, standing in front of her. Real.

It was then that the tears began to fall from her eyes, her hand shaking as she pulled the flashlight back far enough so that the light would touch her features.

"C-Chris?"

The man took a step, confused blue eyes.

She turned and ran before he could answer.

Coward that she was.

* * *

When she asked him about the battle suit incident later, after Uroboros had been unleashed, he said that he had thought Excella had needed the punishment. To be put back in her "place".

Jill almost believed him, and pushed back the nagging thought that he might have done all of that for _her_.

"Whatever you say, Al... whatever you say..."

* * *

"I'm running out of food."

Liar.

She had come back. She had returned. Gone back on her own word.

He had no idea she was even gone.

He ignored her. The sounds of his retching causing her to flinch a little. She rapped on the locked door again, "Al, come on."

No answer. Again.

She tried the knob, and grew frustrated, a growl bubbling from her throat as she knocked – harder, almost pounding. She was getting worried, "Jesus Christ. Open the fucking door! Let me help you!"

Silence.

She was angry, and gave the door a solid kick.

"Fine. Sit in there and die, you asshole. I don't give a fuck anymore."

She did. And she knew it.

It stabbed a knife deep into her already wounded pride, twisting, bringing her to her knees. Or maybe, it was lifting her up.

Growing leathery wings.

* * *

She untangled herself from him, quickly getting to her feet and rushing off to her room – trying to forget the warmth of his bare skin against her cold body. He'd woken her up.

He'd woken her up and terrified her.

Her scars still tingled from his mouth. She could still feel his kisses up her throat, his teeth on her, his breath. His leg over hers.

She stripped off her dripping clothes and tossed them across the room, listening to the wet slap when they hit the wall and slid down to the floor. She didn't want them near her. She couldn't stand the burning inside her, and crawled onto the cot nude. She wrapped herself up in her blanket tightly, shutting her eyes, trying to think of anything but him. She thought of Chris, but it was brief – her mind drawn back to the shower, back to him.

_Forget the one in the store. You have the other exactly where you want him. A bird in the hand..._

She raked her fingers through her wet hair and yanked. She felt like she was being pulled apart.

_He wants you. You know that he does. You can feel it... there, where you want to be touched._

She thought of all the horrible things that made him who he was, and why she hated him, and that those reasons should be strong enough to keep her from doing such things.

But they weren't strong enough reasons for her body. Her body never listened.

What would have happened had she not left?

_You know what would have happened, Jill. Don't be naive._

Her mind flipped back to Chris. She wondered where he was, if he was looking for her. If he had followed her. If she had scared him as much as he'd scared her. Should she go back to town and see?

_He will never allow that. Just wait until he's better... He's going to make you pay. _

She set her jaw. Who gave a fuck about him? She was going to do what she wanted. He wouldn't dare lay a finger on her.

His precious incubator.

* * *

She was standing in the bathroom, staring at her reflection in the mirror. She hated it. The pink, deformed fissures on her chest. The jagged lines on her wrists. The pale color of her skin, eyes, and hair. Age not even beginning to show. She was 40. She hadn't changed. 32 forever.

She wanted to age. She wanted to wither away and die, like everything else in the world. She wanted someone to breathe on her candle, make it flicker.

She lifted her fist, staring at the white scars on her fingers and knuckles. Her wrist still ached from his violent reaction to her just asking how he was. Telling her to forget everything that had transpired between them. She knew her silence would hit home with him. Nothing else did.

Staying completely blank was her strategy. And he hated it.

She could see it, the monster lurking behind rings of ice. The creature vowing its revenge. There was a part of her that was sick of being led around on a leash. Another part of her said to trust him. It was just his nature. Accept him.

And then there was the Serpent, always there, always whispering in the back of her mind, trying to steer her in the direction it wanted. It wanted her to give in to every impulse she had. Give in to any impulse _he_ had.

Adore him.

Tiny words of doubt.

She didn't know where the real her was anymore. She was slowly tearing apart.

She leaned down, holding the sides of her head as she stared down into the sink. He had shot her up with more P30, trying to keep her away from him. She knew he would come seeking her out.

She didn't need this right now. Soon, she would have to come to terms with the conflict within her, but right now she just needed to descend. Lose herself in her thoughts and memories.

_One day, you will realize that you were never the person you thought you were. _

_

* * *

_

She sipped her coffee, letting it burn her. Peeling his lingering taste off her tongue.

All of her things were gathered and ready to go, lifeless on the dinning room table.

He stood in the doorway, watching her with eyes the color of midnight. In nothing but his boxers.

She ignored him. Mostly for her own good.

"Are you leaving?"

She glanced at him, smacking her lips before letting out a weary sigh. She hated when he caught her on days like this. Days when she woke up in his apartment, her thoughts filled with the empty sex they had the night before.

Empty in her own mind.

She was so tired. Exhausted from spending hours debating on if they were friends, or more than that. Limbo for over a year. Letting their... whatever the hell this was, just rot away. Decay. The stinking, bloated corpse of Chris and Jill.

She was sick of skinning daisies.

"Do you have to be somewhere?" he asked, persistent.

"Yes." _Goddamn, Chris, just leave me alone._

"Liar."

She continued to drink the steaming coffee. Silent.

She felt herself tense when he stalked over to her, slamming his fist against the counter beside her, a dull thud betraying how much power was in those strong arms.

"What the hell is your problem, Jill? Huh? What do you want?"

She set the coffee down roughly, the dark liquid splashing out onto her hand. She refused to allow it to distract her. The skin turned an angry pink.

His expression was classic Chris - narrowed eyes, steely jaw. She hated that look.

Before she could answer him, her phone sprang to life in her pocket, and she shot him a nasty glance, flipped it open – grateful for the distraction. She listened, brows furrowing.

"Yeah, we'll be there shortly," before hanging it up and moving around him to grab her things.

He followed, watching her.

"Put on some pants. They want us at the office. They know where Spencer is. We're on."

* * *

"It is a man's own mind, not his enemy or foe, that lures him to evil ways."

- Buddha

* * *

**AN:** Ah! So sorry for the prolonged update. I was away for winter break and my colleagues decided it would be best to wait until I got back. Here it is, hope it was worth the wait.

-T


	12. Chapter 12

_When we two parted  
In silence and tears,  
Half broken-hearted  
To sever for years,  
Pale grew thy cheek and cold,  
Colder thy kiss;  
Truly that hour foretold  
Sorrow to this.  
And if I should meet thee  
After long years,  
How should I greet thee-  
With silence or tears?_

_-Lord Byron_

_

* * *

_

Eden, Oregon.

Such an unfittingly big name for a comparatively tiny town.

Taking a break in paradise was too tempting a chance to pass up.

* * *

He fled from Uroboros by means of a car. The vehicle had been unlocked and the fuel meter showed that it was half full. Perfect to lose hungry beasts.

He abandoned the car two dozen miles later. Nobody cleaned the streets of snow these days.

In almost knee-deep white he was better off on his own feet.

* * *

In truth, he had totaled the car. Veered right off the road and into an adjoining tree. Microsleep. Thankfully he was at a low speed. Not even the airbags deployed.

"You need to get some rest," Claire insisted. They sat around a fire. Wet boughs cracked in the flames.

"You could have killed yourself," she said. "Killed us both."

But thankfully, she was unharmed. Chris had sustained a bloody nose and a mild concussion (headache for a day). He'd survived much worse.

"You're going to work yourself to death," Claire scolded. "They lost the trail. Most certainly. Make camp for a little while. Now. Here."

Here. In Eden, Oregon.

* * *

Chris camped on the outskirts of the town. A ten minute walk from a decrepit Wal-Mart. He inspected it on his first little exploration of the new surroundings. It was in a much better state than most shops he had come across recently.

His findings for the evening included bottled water and a box of Lucky Charms. There was no milk he could eat them with – of course not, nobody milked any cows these days, because there _were_ no cows to milk and there was _no one_ to go in search of them.

He ate it dry. It was so stale it cut his mouth.

Beggars can't be choosers.

* * *

"Wow."

The look on her face as she regarded the kitchen – clean as a whistle – brought a triumphant grin to Chris' lips.

Brunette bangs were brushed behind a delicate ear. "A full fridge. Clean dishes. What happened here?"

He was about to tell her the truth (_my sister_), but said, "I knew you were coming over."

Jill raised an eyebrow, cocked her head. His eyes moved lower, to her neckline. So daring. Inviting.

"Maybe you should come to my house and clean..." She joked.

He took a step forward, but she turned around. His hands slid over her waist, resting on her hips, face burrowed in her hair. She'd put on that perfume again. Jasmine. It enchanted him every time.

"Chris..."

Her hands were on his, pushing gently. He obeyed. Stepped back.

"Did you even get that movie?"

"I don't feel like watching a movie right now." He brushed his fingertips over her arm. Felt the goosebumps on her skin.

He was pretty sure she didn't mind if they postponed _Die Hard 4_.

* * *

Jill Valentine, long dead like the rest of the world, was invading his mind too often for his own good. Chris didn't want to be reminded of all that he'd lost to Uroboros. He had Claire, and that was all that counted.

They sat on a dusty couch of an abandoned living room.

Chris stared into the dark screen of the TV.

He thought how, seven years in the past, he'd eventually watched Bruce Willis save the world while Jill did naughty things in his lap.

He was almost ashamed of the memory.

Because he remembered it so accurately, because it sent such a thrill through his body.

Because he got off on the memory of Jill Valentine, in a post apocalyptic world, in front of a broken TV, while his sister openly watched him from the other end of the couch.

At least she had the decency not to say anything.

* * *

Chris had stared at that final hand for nearly ten minutes before giving up.

That fold had cost him pretty much everything.

Money. Girl. Pride.

Jill stood and stretched. 2 am. Back cracking.

"Are you ready to leave then, Ms. Valentine?"

Chris nearly flipped the card table at Wesker's question.

"Where are you going?" He countered. His voice gave away his fury.

Wesker, completely sober. Jill, slightly buzzed. Chris, smashed.

"The Captain's going to drive me home."

Chris glared and managed to get up. "You're not staying?"

And suddenly, it became a lover's quarrel.

Wesker smiled and pushed the sunglasses up the bridge of his nose.

"Chris, you're drunk," Jill said, almost deadpan. "Sleep it off."

He struggled to stay standing.

She and Wesker exchanged a knowing glance. Chris's rage intensified but the alcohol was debilitating.

"Don't leave, Jilly." Small voice. Heart on the sleeve.

"I'll be over in the morning, Chris. Want me to put you to bed?"

"Don't talk to me like I'm a fuckin' kid, Jill. Stop doing that. You always do that. Christ." He was yelling but he had no idea.

She flinched and then steeled herself against him.

He watched, a helpless child, as Wesker lead Jill out of the messy rented house, that gloved hand looking incredibly inappropriate and yet somehow _right_ on the small of her back.

* * *

It happened on the day the snow began to melt. Barely a week after his arrival in Eden.

He roamed the grocery section of the Wal-Mart. A variety of chips were gone. Most of the canned food too. If he were to guess, he would presume that Eden had been one of the last strongholds of humanity.

Some poor souls who thought Uroboros wouldn't come to claim paradise.

There was no trace of survival now. He had checked. Uroboros would be slowly waking from its slumber. He wouldn't stay here much longer either. Stock up, energize, leave.

Wal-Mart presented him with a number of articles that needed renewing. Fresh clothes, a waterproof rucksack, new socks. A stockpile of lighters. And fire starters. The fights would resume soon. He wanted to be prepared.

When a lonely sound echoed through the abandoned rafts, Chris was sure he could never be prepared well enough.

But no worms had caused the noise.

A beam of light in the darkness.

He hid behind the aisle.

More noise.

A female. Cursing.

His heart stopped beating at the sound of her voice.

* * *

He was hallucinating. There could be no other way. He wished Claire was here. To tell him what he saw was true.

He stepped into the beam of a flashlight.

* * *

"You need to relax. He just dropped me off, Chris. I don't know why you're stroking out over it."

Days later and he hadn't dropped it.

"Oh. You don't know why I'm _stroking out_ over it? Jill, how would you like it if..." He paused, searching for someone that was to Jill as Albert Wesker was to him. He gave up. Random insert. "... Rebecca took me home?"

Jill laughed.

Chris tried desperately to keep a serious face. He failed. She weakened him with that laugh. It was so loud and fun and sudden.

He pulled her into his arms in front of the bowling alley. Their breath hung in the cold winter air. Her numb fingers found their way between his jacket and his shirt, trying to wake up with his warmth. The knock of pins on wood floors and friends shouting and too-loud music floated out the door as it opened. A couple walked to a car, oblivious of Chris and Jill, hugging in orange glow of a street light.

"I just hate him. I can't explain it," he whispered into her hair.

"I won't do it again, Chris. I promise."

In a month, he would move in with her, his sister in tow. Eight months after that, they would break up. A week later, Claire would leave for college.

Seven days from then, an incident in sleepy Raccoon City would change the world.

* * *

To hear his name, floating in the darkness of the Wal-Mart, was surreal.

_She_ was surreal.

He laughed at the Umbrella logo on her sweater. Irony had survived the end of the world.

Jill Valentine, as real as he could remember her, pivoted on her heels and fled as if the Devil was chasing her.

* * *

He ran after her. Instincts taking over. He could not explain _her_. He didn't try to.

By the time he reached the front porch of the building, all he saw was the back of a car disappearing into forest.

He was indecisive.

Would he start chasing ghosts now?

* * *

The tire tracks were easy to follow. A storm was brewing, but Chris was positive that he could catch up with her if he hurried. She couldn't be too far.

His stomach lurched as he thought of her. She was a depiction of his memory. As if someone had teleported her five years into the future after their last encounter in Africa. He had been sure that she had died that day.

But no, he was becoming forgetful. She died two years _before_ that. _Shame on you, Chris._ It had happened at the Spencer Estate.

* * *

He found the car. It was locked. And empty. Footsteps led deeper into the woods. Up to a metal hatch.

Did Eden harbor survivors after all?

Chris did not have the courage to open Pandora's box.

He set up camp close enough to keep an eye on the hatch through the scope of his rifle, but left enough distance so that he wouldn't be noticed.

* * *

"Is it even?"

She looked at it.

"No, Jill. Back up. Tell me from over there."

She moved away. "Yeah. It's even."

Three nails in the wall above the couch.

He nudged the gilded corner of the heavy frame. It straightened out.

"Looks good," she said.

He stood to the side, staring at the painting. "Who gave you this again?"

"Jessy."

He didn't know Jessy. He knew most of her friends. He nodded. "You like it?"

"Yes. A lot."

He didn't like it. It was just a bunch of orange and red and yellow.

"What do you see when you look at it?" she asked him.

He shrugged. "A flower, I guess."

She looked disappointed. He didn't know why.

* * *

A storm drew up. Grey clouds growled. The temperatures dropped. He pulled the parka closer around his body. It was going to start snowing soon.

He envied his sister, who was sitting on a dusty sofa, watching a broken TV.

He also envied his long-dead lover, unaffected by the blizzard in her underground refuge.

Jill Valentine, who had come back to life in the Garden of Eden.

* * *

_dum spiro, spero_

_- Latin Proverb_


	13. Chapter 13

**AN: This is a long one. Can't believe I had it in me. A big thank you to my extremely patient and talented co-authors, T. and C. This chapter is quite possibly my favorite piece of work so far (as a whole) - a lot of love went into it. I hope it ties up some loose ends, and maybe creates some new ones... **

**While researching, I discovered that Excella was only 19 when she met Wesker. Strange, right? I would have preferred that she be older, but in the spirit of staying somewhat canon, I tried to work around it. Just a heads-up.**

**Thank you to our reviewers, especially our regulars - LanieB, CJJS, Skiptrix, Maiafay, littlemonsterteeth, and the list goes on. All reviews are much-appreciated.**

**Warning: Mild sexuality. Tattooing. Fights. Numerous references to famous works of art. Enjoy!**

* * *

_"Deceiving others. That is what the world calls romance."_

_- Oscar Wilde_

* * *

He stared at the cup.

He checked the bathroom door once more. Locked.

He was more than ready. It had been a week since the last time.

Such a heavy, throbbing pressure _there_. Denied, for the sake of science.

He had to admit though; there was a gratifying torture in mastering his physical urges.

He rubbed the lotion between his fingers. They were out of Jergen's. He didn't like using the Gold Bond (too thick), but he'd have to until their next run.

His head was back against the door. He breathed deeply, teeth gritted.

One hand pleasured, the other held the cup. He stared at the blue thong laying on the counter.

* * *

Ricardo Irving was a nervous man. He was traitorous and greedy, stupid and weak, and this all gave him very good cause to be nervous.

He was also Albert Wesker's favorite kind of associate.

"I want access to this girl."

Irving studied the newspaper clipping Wesker had placed on the desk.

_Excella Gionne, sole heiress of the Travis Family fortune, takes position with Tricell._

"I need to know everything about her. Everything."

* * *

_Only child._

_Estimated net worth: 894 million (American dollars)_

_Expert equestrian._

_Early Acceptance/Accelerated Baccalaureate Program: Graz University of Technology (age 14 to 17)._

_Accelerated Postgraduate Program: Technische Universitat Wien. Biomedical Engineering (age 17 to 18)._

_Married and widowed (age 18 to 19)._

_Current marital status: single._

He paused. His finger touched the page of the dossier.

**_Married and widowed (age 18 to 19)._**

He flipped through the file. Found a photograph.

Child bride. Stout, ogreish groom. At least thrice her age.

Both were frowning. An unhappy union. He suspected arranged.

He would find, as he delved further, that the lucky groom was a well-known associate of her late father's. A Mr. Karl J. Gionne. The Travis Family's head estate planner.

How convenient for Karl. How unfortunate for poor little Excella.

He imagined her lying beneath the foul, sweaty bastard every night for a year.

Excella most likely killed the man herself.

She had probably known nothing of love. Very little of lust.

He imagined the things a girl like her, _a starved girl_, would do to keep a man like himself.

Once she'd had him, he knew that she would do whatever it took to keep him in her life. She would use her pliant body to extort promises of marriage and power, to spin fairytales of soul mates and fated love from his exhausted, satiated lips.

She wanted Tricell - it was her _birthright_, an inheritance. But it would not be so easy; things no longer worked as they did in the Old World.

She would need help. She would need to prove herself to the board. He imagined feeding her his genius... her rocketing ascent through the ranks and his own eventual take-over.

He imagined her debt to him, her worship of him.

He thought of her near-bottomless Swiss bank accounts entangled with his own deep pockets.

He even imagined her inevitable death.

It made him smile.

Excella Gionne would be his easiest mark to date.

* * *

He examined the can. _Clam chowder._

Strange. He was almost certain that Jill disliked shell fish. Some traumatic experience she'd told him about once. A lifetime ago. S.T.A.R.S.

He rubbed his nose and adjusted the sunglasses. Didn't speak his mind.

She'd been agitated lately.

He might venture to say emboldened. It was a worrisome change in demeanor.

So much hinged on her.

Most important, his sense of winning.

"Keep up, Al. Who knows what's waiting out there to kick your ass..." She trailed off, distracted by a collapsed end cap. She was nervous today - twitchy.

_Why?_

He leaned over the cart he was pushing and kept pace behind Jill.

Up and down the aisles of the darkened Wal-Mart.

* * *

They stayed in Milan; made preparations, made contacts. Waited.

One morning, he came Wesker's apartment in the villa.

He had a gift.

"There's a party next week. Tricell and friends."

The invitation, embossed and silky, named Irving as the guest.

Wesker raised his eyebrows. The two of them were hardly interchangeable.

"I'll just be, _uh_, sick that evening. _Cough, cough._" Irving smiled, adjusting the ridiculous gold chains around his neck.

Wesker studied her signature.

Big and round. Youthful and cocky. _Desperate and trainable._

He laughed as Irving left, closing the French doors behind him.

* * *

The walls of the bunker felt closer than before. They were converging on him, he was sure.

The results were less than satisfactory. Left much to be desired. He repeated the experiment over and over to be sure. He varied the frequency – sometimes three times daily, sometimes once daily, once weekly even. He tried it in the morning; he tried it at night. He sampled midday as well (although that had been challenging – she was most active then).

Still, nothing changed.

_Count: 20 million spermatozoa per ejaculation (average ejaculate – 3.2 mL)._

Writing that number made him frown.

Only 20 million.

Less than half of what an average fertile man could produce in a single orgasm.

Granted, she was taking the Novarel injections regularly – each cycle hopefully producing several viable eggs. That would make the process more successful, if it succeeded at all.

_But with so low a count…_ He massaged his brow and shook his head.

He supposed he was lucky. It should have been a direr prognosis considering what the virus had done to his body temperature. That same variable affected something else too. He hesitated, finding that even putting the pen to paper about the issue made him somehow less powerful, less male. Slowly, he wrote:

_Poor motility._

There was a fix for that though.

Glyceraldehyde 3-phosphate dehydrogenase-S. _GPADS._ The enzyme that aided in the whipping motion off the tail.

Unfortunately, obtaining that enzyme and using it to alter his own sperm required a living, human male.

_Donor needed._

He closed the journal and picked up the Petri dish. He looked at it for a second or two and then threw it away.

He tired of studying his own semen.

* * *

Excella was exactly as he had thought.

Her fox-fur eyelashes fluttering, her hungry eyes looking him up and down all through the dinner at her mansion in Nerviano.

Around them, banal talk of revolutionizing genetic engineering, eradicating cancer, saving the world. The mention of taking a gondola ride down the Olona after the meal.

She was quiet, sipping some rare vintage wine, pushing the _lapin a la moutarde_ around her plate.

"Where is that Yankee? What was his name? Ricky Irling?" A man asked. Foppish brown hair, terrible sense of style. He was reminiscent of a young William Birkin. Wesker looked him over, mused on the similarities.

Of course, one was dead.

"I am afraid Ricardo Irving is ill this evening," Wesker replied after a delay.

The attention of the party turned to him, suddenly aware of the stranger in sunglasses at the end of the table.

That brave young man had questions. His English wasn't half bad, which made his interrogation all the more insulting.

"Where did you say you were from?"

_Nosy little prick._

"America."

"I thought I heard something in your voice. A hint of British, yes?"

"You are mistaken."

"Well, that's a pity. Maybe if you share your association with us, you'll restore some respect." Then they all laughed. Laughed their funny little high-brow laughs.

Wesker didn't flinch. The sunglasses reflected their glee.

Excella sat back. She looked up at him as demurely as she was could.

He noted that she was about as subtle as a sledgehammer, though she fancied herself to be a wilting flower. But that was fine with him. Preferable even.

"I worked for Umbrella," Wesker said, playing his highest card.

The only sound then was the string quartet. _No. 2 in D Major: III Notturno._

The Umbrella Situation had become a mythological thing among scientists. Umbrella was the pinnacle of brilliance, the most depraved and daring of all genetic research - hated and feared and admired behind closed laboratory doors.

"I began my career at 17, under the tutelage of Ozwell E. Spencer. You've heard of him, I'm sure, being as well-versed as you are. I was awarded a chief researcher position shortly after being hired in. I remained there for years. I left the company when things became... complicated. I would not be morally compromised, you see. But the things I witnessed... the things I saw..." He swirled his untouched wine, pretended to contemplate the atrocities. "I was fortunate to escape with my life."

They had no idea how true those words were, in a completely different context.

He was a verbal alchemist - mixing truths with lies and coming up with enough shimmer and flash to dazzle any audience.

The nosy little prick stared at his own plate. Silenced.

* * *

She was on the second rung before he stopped her.

"Where are you going?"

She paused without looking at him. "Up."

He glared at her. "I can see that. Where are you going, Jill?"

"I need some air. Christ. Fuck off."

* * *

When surface talk of the other guests resumed, he stood, draping the napkin he hadn't used over the arm of the baroque chair, and left the room.

He looked back only once.

Because once was enough for girls like Excella.

* * *

If there was anything endearing about her (aside from her... _generous_ physical attributes) it was her family's art collection.

He thought of owning it all, running his fingers over the sculptures and staring at every brushstroke in each painting until the artist's secrets were his own.

He took her without mercy in front of Klimt's _Danae_, a work of such intrinsic value, young Excella could not possibly comprehend its worth.

He had her by the light of a 1921 Tiffany lamp, as her guests laughed, vapid and ignorant, in the adjoining room.

He fucked her on a hand-woven Persian rug, passed down through countless generations, cherished and maintained, only to be desecrated with his release.

He grabbed her necklace as if it were reins and yanked. Rubies and sapphires skittered across the marble floor as it fell apart in his hands.

She didn't care. She begged for more. She didn't even know his name; hadn't asked him to take off the sunglasses.

Between thrusts, he contemplated how he would tell her about himself - what he was, what he wanted to be, what he needed her to be.

There was ample time, though.

For now, he could see himself getting _very_ comfortable sharing in her lifestyle - the opulence and heaviness, the obscenity and idiocy of it all.

An endless string of parties, fine art, and sex while he built an empire on the back of her family's good name.

His own cruelty was nearly enough to make him orgasm.

Yes, he would ride his shapely Tricell filly all the way to the top and laugh his silly little American laugh as he kicked her back to the bottom.

* * *

Her legs were pulled up under her, crossed. Yogic. She read voraciously (_Lover Enshrined_). Wesker rarely saw her any other way these days. Nose in those filthy vampire romance novels or climbing to the world outside.

Her sudden indifference, her silence, upset him.

Hurt him. A little. Barely.

Too much.

"What is that garbage even about?"

He couldn't help it. He wanted to know. He'd watched her plow through three of them in a weeks time.

Jill didn't answer him.

She licked her thumb and turned a page with it. Kept reading.

He snatched the book from her hands and tore it in half.

Paperback pages floated to the floor. Fluttered around him.

She stared at him. Completely, totally unfazed.

"You're a fucking _child_, Al. Seriously."

* * *

The string quartet played a vigorous rendition of _Danse Macabre_.

He reclined in a gilded boudoir throne, gazing up at the Byzantine-style fresco on the ceiling.

Heavens and cherubs and angels and gods, and he would soon have his place among them.

_Patience._

She giggled like a child and poured a rose-blush champagne on his chest, his stomach. He hissed at the chill, muscles rippling, tightening. She kissed it up, the delicate bubbles tickling his skin, her warm tongue not far behind.

She followed the trail of champagne all the way down.

He told her what a good girl she was, how attractive he found her, how he might have need of a pretty thing like her.

_Soon._

He stared at the statue on the fireplace mantel while she worked him.

Auguste Rodin was his favorite artist.

And that piece on the mantel was his favorite piece - gone to private collection years before.

_Eternal Idol._

The quartet played on just outside the door. A spirited and dizzying _Balero_, Excella's wet mouth on him, the banter of her pompous friends, a victory so close he could taste it.

He would think of the _Eternal Idol_ again, an age later.

In a bunker, at the end of the world.

When he finally submitted to Jill's unrelenting savagery.

* * *

She was pulling on the hooded sweatshirt again.

He looked up from the lab table.

"You go to the surface often, as of late. Tell me - what is so interesting to you out there, Ms. Valentine?"

He reclined arrogantly in the rolling chair, tapped the fancy pen on his thigh. Attempted to intimidate, like he had in his glory days.

She pulled her hair back, casual. Exposed her beautiful throat. Bent over as she slipped on her tennis shoes.

Attempted intimidation: failure.

"I heard you jerking off last night. Well, it wasn't just last night - you do it all the time. That one moan, always right at the end..." She tied her shoes, spoke as if she were discussing the weather. "This is a small place. Try keeping it down."

He stopped himself from gasping.

"What do you think about when you cum, Al? Zombies?"

She waited for an answer.

He realized his mouth was open and closed it. His lips tightened and set into that familiar, unreadable line.

On her way out, she baited him with her eyes. Dared him.

Her shoulder brushed his.

He was too shocked to react.

Wesker was absolutely still for several minutes after she was gone.

* * *

She watched him, watching her eat. Chin on his hand, staring absently. At her, through her.

Days and days with nothing to do.

"You wanna try?"

He looked surprised by her voice. "I…"

"Try. You'll just throw it up if you can't."

He grimaced, remembering.

She handed him the fork. He grew nauseous, thinking of possible consequences.

He weighed the fork in his hand. It felt awkward. It had been decades. He wasn't even sure how to hold it.

She showed him, closing her fingers over his, pinching them around the metal. He stared at her face, smelling her hair as she leaned close. She didn't notice… or pretended not to.

When she let go, he dipped the utensil into the jar of baby dill pickles.

"Oh my God, no. Try this first. Baby steps." She laughed. Pushed a can of pears at him.

_Eve._

He stabbed a fruit, brought it to his mouth. She waited, leaning back.

_Adam._

He finished chewing. He thought on the flavor of the pear.

Held out the fork to her.

"Nah. You go ahead." Her fingers tapped on the table.

He ate the rest of the can. Slow swallowing that turned almost frantic. Sweet. Sensual. Grainy but soft. He felt a piece of skin with his tongue, pressed it to the roof of his mouth, ground it between his teeth. He couldn't stop.

"Drink," she said when the fruit was gone. So he drank the syrup. A sip at first. Then gulps of it, nearly choking himself.

He took a shaky breath. He looked disoriented; subtle, yielding where he was once sharp, resistant.

It was the most decadent thing he'd ever experienced.

When he looked at her, she looked down. Made to feel shy by his eagerness.

A witness to his sensory climax.

Oddly, he could think of nothing but what she would taste like.

All of her.

* * *

She made an awful lot of noise.

He tried to ignore it as long as possible, his hand writing in the furious, tight script.

It was her infernal sighing that pushed him over the edge.

"Jill, what in the _hell_ are you looking for?" Pen thrown down, eyes glowing.

She was leaning over the wash basin, searching behind it, under it. She turned to him and ran a hand over her ponytail.

"It was… A while back I did my laundry. I can't find… Fuck. Never mind."

She left the lab.

He picked the pen up with his right hand, continued his illegible note-taking.

His left hand though, remained in his lap.

Rubbing the material of the blue thong between capably long fingers.

* * *

She was curled up on a chair, re-reading _Lover Awakened_ (because he'd torn up the other book), its dog-eared pages holding her attention so that she bit her nails.

It was an intolerable clicking sound.

She read the book... because it infuriated him. She chewed her nails... because it infuriated him. She sat so close... because it infuriated him.

"Why do you enjoy those so much?"

She turned a page. "I like them."

He squinted at cover. A man with his mouth on a woman's throat. Her head back in ecstasy, eyes closed. Another vampire novel. "Cheap erotica and blood play?"

"Yep."

"Because I am such unbearable company?"

Silence.

"I was not always... like this, Jill."

Her eyes stilled on the page, stopped reading. He looked at her feet, drawn up close to her, on the edge of the chair, metallic teal nail polish catching the lab lighting.

"I was not always so removed. I was different before. There are reasons."

She leaned into the table, close to his face. Foolishly, he thought of closing his eyes. Perhaps she had come back to kiss him.

"Let me guess, Al. Absentee father, right? Mom would knock you around. You hated women for most of your miserable life, and then one day... you meet her. Maybe it was even that Dorian slut."

He was shocked that Jill had remembered his date's name, after all the years between.

"And you fall madly in love with her and she restores your faith in women. And then one day, she breaks the shit out of your shriveled little heart. The sex stops. And you just get so angry, you can't handle it. You start murdering, and back-stabbing, and covering-up. And it probably felt so damn amazing. Your life turned into one big fucking hard-on for power and death and pain. And before you knew it, you'd killed like, six billion people."

She was wrong. He'd had a comfortable enough childhood. And Dorian hadn't put a dent in _him_ (although he'd laid waste to _her_ personal life... it had been the nasiest divorce he'd ever seen).

"Are you finished, Ms. Valentine?"

"Why did you beat me?" She'd finally found the courage.

His breath caught in his throat. His heart paused, waiting for his brain to catch up.

"Why did you beat me, Al? Because of Chris? Really?"

He looked away from her, angled his body in the other direction.

"You said that. You said it was because of Chris. When you were ripping my arm out. Trying to kill me. When you kicked me and broke my ribs. When you were-"

_"Stop."_

He stood, the chair squeaking.

"That's right. Run away. Hide for a few days. Lying sonofabitch."

"Stop this, Jill. I'm warning you."

"There was a time, Al."

He stood with his back to her. Every muscle tensed, every fiber in him strung so tightly, he thought he might snap again.

"There was this one moment... when I could have loved you. You know the one. I almost fell for your shit. Can you believe that?"

Everything in him sank.

* * *

She stood in the back of the ballroom, winter coat folded over her arms.

Late. As always.

A lot of people - three hundred, maybe more.

_Tri-City Law Enforcement and Fire Safety Annual Christmas Fundraiser._

A hush fell when he took the stage.

He looked over the crowd slowly, hands on the podium.

And then he saw her.

A nod.

He began.

"Good evening and thank you for the safest year Lake County has ever seen..."

* * *

She wasn't sure how he did it.

No nerves, no fear. But all those people. Watching.

He stirred them. Spoke of protecting, enforcing, serving. Commended, praised, acknowledged.

Hypnotic. Persuasive. Rousing.

The applause was thunderous.

She'd seen it all before - in the board room, in the locker rooms, in the office.

When he spoke, it was hard not to feel like the only person in the room.

* * *

A reproduction of _Red Canna_. O'Keefe. 1923.

"That was good, sir. Really inspiring."

He didn't turn to her, kept studying the painting.

"Thank you."

They looked on together then, shoulder to shoulder.

"Do you like it?" she asked him.

Reds, pinks, oranges, yellows. Petals opening. An inviting piece - warm and moist.

"I do."

"Will you bid on it tonight?" Silent auction.

"Do you like it, Jill?"

She paused. "It's really pretty, yeah. I think it's my favorite in here."

He glanced at her. "I may bid on it. I haven't decided."

She smiled, shook her head as if he'd said something unbelievable.

"What?"

"I never thought of you liking flowers."

"It's a _woman_. Not a flower." His voice was dark. "A bedroom piece."

She frowned and then blushed.

He smiled at her embarrassment.

He began to walk, hands clasped behind his back, as she trailed behind. He knew she was there without having to look.

"And where is Redfield tonight?"

"Sick. Sleeping, I hope."

He nodded. "A pity he missed the food. And alcohol. We know how much he enjoys that."

A waiter offered him a drink. He declined, a wave of the hand. Almost to prove a point.

"You have Christmas plans with him, I assume." His tone was dull, unimpressed.

She felt stupid. And angry. Always looking down his fucking nose. Especially since they'd moved in together.

"Yeah. And I'm sure they're just lining up to spend the holidays with you..."

He turned to her.

"I _do_ have plans actually."

A curvaceous blonde approached; slinky black dress, plunging neckline, legs for days, sky-scraper pumps. An expensive-looking woman. A well-kept woman.

_A better woman._

"Speak of the Devil..."

Jill shrank back, made aware of her many faults: her off-label skirt, her fake jewelry, the appearance she was convinced was mediocre at best.

Wesker didn't bother to introduce them.

But he did watch Jill fade away into the crowd.

In a different world, he would have called out to her, told her that he didn't care about her cheap clothes.

He just wanted to touch what was underneath.

* * *

He fought to maintain control of himself. He was losing. He needed to lash out and destroy before there was a chance to be destroyed. He turned to her, eyes full of fire and hate. Animal. Rabid.

There he was - the Albert Wesker she knew. Not the man in the shower. Not the one she went back for. Not the man she saved.

"I don't want your pathetic feelings. I want what your body can do for me. You are worth nothing but what your womb can produce."

Her face was blank.

"You are a breeder, Jill. You are lucky I have been so generous to let you keep that name. You don't even _need _a name. You are a _cow_. A _uterus_."

She grabbed his hand as he walked past. He flinched.

She said softly, "I'm sorry."

He waited. He felt her mouth on his knuckles. A pang of regret.

She smiled, kissing his fingers before whispering:

"I'm sorry you aren't half the man _he_ was."

* * *

She had her keys out, walking through the parking garage.

Staring at her pager.

Chris. He'd been beeping her all night.

No 911. Not urgent. Just bored and Nyquiled-up.

She debated going back to the convention center to call him.

A man, very close, spoke. "Miss Valentine."

She jumped.

He scared the hell out of her, standing against the side of her Jeep.

The painting next to him.

"You owe me a ride." Giving orders even off-duty.

She glowered, picking through the keys. "Where is _she_?"

He laughed at her. So bold. So contemptuous.

"Gone. Back to her penthouse in the city. Back to her husband." He sounded distant.

Jill looked disgusted. The locks clicked. "Get in."

He opened the door, slid the reproduction in the backseat.

"Hey - you won." She sounded happy.

"I paid entirely too much for it though. The frame cost more than the print, I'm sure."

She turned in her seat, looked at it. "It doesn't matter. It's beautiful."

She found the good in everything.

"It's yours then," he said. "Merry Christmas."

It had been hers all along anyway.

* * *

They drove in silence.

The frequent vibration of the pager was annoying. He sighed.

"Do you want to stop and call him, perhaps?"

"Do you have any tattoos, sir?"

He was quiet for several beats. "Excuse me?"

* * *

The street was deserted. A blanket of snow on the road.

She led him down a stairway, to the basement of a brick building.

Neon lights on the walls; dim, pulsing, buzzing.

She stomped her feet on the mat. A bell tinkled as the door shut behind them. He began to pull the leather gloves from his hands.

A biker-type appeared. Full-color sleeves. Hands covered with ink - "love" and "hate" across his knuckles. Muscle tee and bandana finished off the stereotype.

Wesker bristled.

"How'd that piece heal?"

Wesker imagined the places she could be hiding body art. He shivered, reminded of hide-and-go-seek - _the adult version_.

Jill smiled at the artist. "Great. Got time for me tonight?"

* * *

He browsed through the collection on the walls. Paged through the samples. Went over the portfolio near the register.

It was nice work.

For trash people.

"What do you think?" She called to him from the chair.

He came to her side then, looked at the stencil on her lower back.

His heart skipped. Her shirt was pulled up. Half of one of her hidden tattoos showed - a colorful flaming heart, a traditional _milagro_, peaking out from the waist of the pencil skirt. She was spiritual. He'd never known.

Then he noticed the clasp of a lacy little black bra, barely exposed. Eye hooks. Old-fashioned and forbidden.

He thought of the mere seconds it would take to undo it... help the straps fall... reach under and cup, knead, pull...

"Well?"

His breath hitched. He shrugged and turned away - feigned disinterest. "Will this take long, Ms. Valentine? I would like to get home soon."

Inside, he prayed to his nameless gods that it would take an eternity.

She frowned, adjusted her skirt. Pouted.

"I don't have to like it - you are not getting it for me." He leaned on a wall.

She was cloudy. "What should I get then, sir? You have something better?"

He studied her in the fuzzy light, as he had the O'Keefe. Shirt pulled up in the back, those dimples above her ass teasing him. Annoyed expression. One heel dangling off her toes.

So unintentional. So messy.

She really had no idea what she could do to a man.

He dropped his sport coat on the closest chair and demanded paper and a pen.

* * *

He watched her writhe and moan when the needles went deep on the outline.

Little drops of blood welled up, mix with the ink.

Down the side of her body.

"What's her name?" She had her hand over her face. She jumped when the artist grazed a sensitive spot.

"Dorian."

She even had an expensive name.

"She's your-"

"No, Jill, she is not."

"Do you love her?"

He scowled. "That is a ridiculous question."

"Jesus, I just wondered."

He cut her off. "Are you planning to marry him?"

She was too surprised by the question to respond cleverly. "I... I... maybe?"

"You don't have to."

The tattooer almost slipped. Jill cleared her throat. Nervous habit.

"I don't believe you would be stupid enough to love him. He's a pig."

He crossed his legs, fingers laced over a knee. She could smell his cologne. The flash of a Swiss watch under the dress shirt. An heirloom cufflink - onyx and some other precious gem. Not a hair out of place. Every move calculated and measured, perfect.

Wesker was a god.

Chris never wore cologne. He didn't own a dress shirt. No money to buy Swiss watches. No one left in his family to inherit priceless cufflinks from. Hair that was often out of place. Occasional dandruff. He was clumsy and rough, imperfect.

Chris was no god.

* * *

When the artist finished, she stood in front of the mirror, shirt pulled up on her side.

It was mesmerizing and original and exciting. Something she'd never imagined getting.

It was very much _him_.

He was off to her left, arms crossed, watching her expression.

She smiled, turning, trying to see the tattoo from every perspective.

"I love it."

* * *

She parked the Jeep in front of his building, on the curb.

It was a nice street. Older homes. The apartment he lived in was a converted Victorian.

She looked up at it.

He adjusted his gloves.

The pager went off.

He rolled his eyes.

"Why don't you come up and call him, hmm?"

* * *

"Yeah. Yeah. It was good. I had a nice time. How are you feeling?"

She shuffled a foot on the wood floors. The portable phone was cradled on her shoulder as she picked her nails.

"No. Yellow means infection. Well don't _swallow_ it, Chris. Spit it out. Have you been drinking clear liquids? Beer does not count. That's not even funny..."

Wesker watched her over the island in the kitchen. _God damn Chris Redfield_. He found it awe-inspiring that he could harbor such hate for one man.

"I got a new tattoo. Yeah. Yes. It's amazing." A pause. "Where am I?"

He leaned on the counter. She glanced at him. _Guilty_.

"I'm with Shel. Uh-huh. I'll tell her that."

Jill walked out of earshot, whispering the last of her conversation.

* * *

She set the phone down in front of him. He put it back on its charger. A click and then a beep.

They stared at each other in the dim yellow light.

She could hear a clock somewhere, her own breathing, her own heart.

She waited, not knowing why.

"You should go home to him."

He didn't mean it, even she could tell.

He walked around the island to her, his hands in his pockets, his shirt unbuttoned at the collar, tie undone and hanging around his neck. He was otherworldly. Olympian.

His heat behind her, she closed her eyes, held her breath.

He was so close.

She wished he'd just do it. Just do whatever it was he wanted to do. She would let him.

She would stay the night and deal with the consequences later.

She could sleep with a man like him. Fall into dangerous and all-consuming love with a man like him.

He was an invitation away from her submission.

But she knew his pride would not allow him to ask.

"I'll walk you down, Ms. Valentine."

* * *

"Hey."

Jill stroked his hair. He was sweaty, feverish, sleepy. But he smiled for her, his eyes barely open.

"Hi." His hand came to her hair, tucking it behind an ear. "You look pretty."

The light of the TV was blue on his face. He was wrapped in a throw on the couch, waiting for her.

"Let's see it, Jilly."

She lifted the shirt, peeled away the gauze pad.

He stared. "What made you get _that_?"

She was suddenly angry. "I dunno. I liked it. You don't like it?"

He laughed. "Damn, relax. I just-"

"Well, you don't have to like it. I didn't get it for _you_." Vicious. Strange, coming from her.

He stopped. "Jill. _Jill_. It's nice. It's perfect. I'm sorry." She looked skeptical. "I'm serious. It's very cool."

He pushed her back into the couch, pulled off her shoes, one at a time. Kissed her knee while he sniffled. She couldn't help but love him.

"Let's go to bed, baby." He rubbed her calf.

Chris was no god.

But he adored her and he was safe and he cared.

Sometimes though, she imagined a different life.

A life of cufflinks, Swiss watches and expensive cologne.

* * *

The morning after they'd torn each other apart, the coffee was made for her.

Exactly two tablespoons of sugar and three tablespoons of powdered creamer in the bottom of her favorite mug. A spoon set across the top.

Next to it, a syringe. P30.

And next to _that_, her book. Pages slipped back in, binding taped, order restored.

She took a sip of the coffee.

She knew he'd never bring up what they had said the night before. It had been dropped. He expected things to resume as normally as possible between them.

That was his way.

* * *

Chris had been so affectionate and warm. He was spontaneous and funny - a prankster, youthful. He spoke to her - he would talk about love, whether he meant what he said or not, because he was unafraid.

Chris was a man.

Wesker was distant and cold. He was calculating and humorless - mysterious, temperamental. He would not speak because he was afraid.

Wesker was no man.

But he protected her, albeit for his own reasons, and under most circumstances, he was safe, and he did care for her in one way or another, always.

Sometimes though, she imagined a different life.

A life of letting go, an unkept house and touching without fear.

The grass would never be green enough for Jill Valentine.

* * *

_"... gods are most easily destroyed by those who ignore them."_

_- The Women's Encyclopedia of Myths and Secrets_


	14. Chapter 14

_"Your battles inspired me - not the obvious material battles, but those that were fought and won behind your forehead."_

_- James Joyce_

* * *

She had wanted to cut her hair for while. She didn't because she had always been afraid of what _he_ would say, or do.

When she realized she didn't really give a damn, she decided to hack it off.

She watched carefully in the mirror, eyes narrowing as she tugged her hair back into its usual ponytail. It came to just below her shoulder blades. She saw something shift in the doorway – he was watching her.

She handed him the scissors.

He held the ponytail straight. Paused with the scissors at about two inches.

"More."

He raised his eyebrows, moved the scissors up to four inches.

"More."

"You aren't keeping the length?" He sounded surprised, a little panicked.

"More."

He made the cut quickly, then sighed. He looked at the chunk of thick blonde hair in his hand.

She saw his lip twitch, but he had no other outward response. She knew her silence was stirring the boiling pot of anger within him.

"Thanks."

She wasn't going to fold – she had games of her own.

She let her hair loose then; it tickled her shoulders.

She trimmed the ends herself, washed them down the drain. He watched, dumbly holding what had been her ponytail. She brushed past him – shoulder dragging along his chest.

* * *

She'd had him take off nearly six inches. In a strange way, he was terribly angry. She had _made_ him do it.

He rubbed the hair between his thumb and forefinger, getting a feel for the texture.

He smelled her. She had been wearing something different. Flowery, but with deeper notes. Almost a musk. Jasmine. He hated when she did that. He was so sensitive to smell.

She knew he was like an animal – scents were visceral to him, as vivid as color, as arousing as touch. She did these things on purpose. This new perfume made him think of sex.

He kept some of it, threw the rest away - trying to eradicate the awful thoughts from his mind.

She saw him pocket the straight blonde hair and ducked back into her bunk, tucking that new Ace up her sleeve.

* * *

She approached the ladder, cautious. The blizzard had stopped raging above and Wesker was hiding. It was the perfect time to slip out without playing the question game.

She had a can under her arm – green beans, her personal favorite next to pineapples – just in case Chris had followed her. She didn't want to get her hopes up, but they were beginning to drag her along as they swelled.

First rung, the metal warm against her fingers. If Chris was out there, she couldn't imagine how cold he was. Was he freezing to death?

_Tenth rung,_ her heart pounding in her ears. Steady, heavy beats.

_Twenty-fourth rung,_ deep breaths.

_Thirty-second rung,_ butterflies.

_Hatch, _the moment of truth. Time stopped.

She pushed it open and crawled outside.

* * *

_Do you think perhaps he has it?_

Jill kicked over her pile of dirty clothes, sifting through them with a look of disgust.

"You're sick."

_I'm only voicing your own suspicions._

"No, that's what you want to think."

_I can see why he finds you so amusing when you're in denial._

"Whatever."

_Alright, tell me why you sat outside and listened then. You were very interested in what he was doing. Were you really investigating the whereabouts of your missing clothes... or something more?_

She paused, a look of horror.

"You made me do that."

A hoarse laugh. Her own voice, but not.

_Pl__ease. You're not nearly as innocent as you pretend to be. And I would know... Afterall, I **am** you._

_

* * *

_

He didn't knock.

He opened the door to her room, narrowing his eyes at the novel in her hands. She looked, but said nothing.

He held up a syringe, and she shut the book, got to her feet and moved towards him, pulling at the collar of the T-shirt, exposing her neck for him. He shook his head.

She pulled up the leg of her shorts then, showing her hip and a little more. He seemed to prefer that spot now.

She watched his throat work as he swallowed. Not so unaffected. Maybe she was just getting good at noticing the little things he did. Like how he kept his nails painfully short because he chewed on them after spending long hours in the lab, or the how crows feet would gather around his eyes whenever he removed his sunglasses, or how he'd slowly started wearing more of that one cologne since she'd mentioned she liked it.

He didn't so much as blink as he pressed the needle into her. She let out a groan.

The procedure was standard. He didn't even rub away the soreness it left this time.

She sighed when the familiar strength came bolting through her system like lightning, her expression falling into a blank stare as he left the room.

* * *

His nails scraped her skin, finding the edges of her conscience – _pulling_.

Her hands wrapped around his fingers, eyes pleading, staring into his.

"No. Stop."

He had come to her while she slept. He must have thought she would be less likely to struggle.

He was right.

She woke to him taking off her top. She covered herself, arms crossing over the sports bra. He held her wrists, moved them away from her body and stared at her chest.

After all these years, he'd force her now? She had waited for this - countless fearful nights since he'd killed Excella. She was certain he'd have her when there was no one else, make her share his bed.

It was the last thing he could take from her.

"I'll give it to you. I won't fight. Just let me undress myself. Okay? Please?" Her voice was shaky. She wriggled a hand free, began to work at her shorts, push them off.

He shushed her, stopped her, a sour expression on his face. _He wasn't going to...?_

She was confused. "What... what do you want?"

He touched the jewel, followed the edge of it, looking for something. Her heart felt like it would give out.

She could feel it sometimes, when she twisted the wrong way, or rolled over on her stomach in her sleep. She could feel it threading deep within her chest – seemingly anchored to her heart. A physical cage around her mind, her soul.

He tugged on it. She gasped. She wasn't ready. She needed more time to process, more time to accept.

"Wait. Please."

Her whisper was warm against his neck. She didn't want anymore of his pain. But she knew with this pain would come freedom. She could finally grow her wings back.

His only response was a tightening of his grip on her metal chest.

Memories swam in her mind. Recalling the years he spent plucking her feathers, only to hand them back, shame-faced. He was a mystery to her.

She groaned, her hands pushing at him as he worked his fingertips under the device - fitting into the grooves she had scratched herself in the agony of her captivity. The tug felt odd, and several tubes shivered inside her.

He flexed, and pulled. She let out a cry, hands moving to claw at his arms.

_Why? Why was he freeing her now?_

She looked into his eyes past the horizon of her tears – foreign suns.

"Stop. Please."

He pulled, she closed her eyes – the sea spilling over.

She felt his knuckles against her skin now; he had pried his way under the plate. The pain was unbearable, her cries deafening. She begged him to stop - told him that she was willing to be his puppet if he would just stop hurting her; she would be willing to carry the weight of the device for the rest of her days if he would just leave her alone.

"Shhhh," he soothed.

How strange he'd leave his mark there. So near to her broken heart.

There were loud snaps, whips beating against her rib cage. Sparks. Her chest felt warm. She collapsed into his arms. Torn from her chrysalis like a butterfly.

He let her stay there, her cheek on his shoulder, her new wings wet with blood.

* * *

During the early days of the apocalypse, she had trouble sleeping.

Holed up in another empty house, with only the dust, the blood, and Wesker there to keep her company. He let her have the bed while he slept in a chair across the room.

He never truly slept.

The silence made her shift uncomfortably. She wished he was closer, maybe even next to her, _under the covers_, so the steady beat of his heart and the hiss of his breathing and all of his heat would lull her to sleep. She hated herself for wishing it.

Her eyelids grew heavy at 12:29am.

She faded into a black, dreamless abyss at 1:41am.

_"Jill."_

Her name in the dark made her eyes open. Had she even slept at all?

She rubbed her eyes, her body sluggish, and looked over at him. He stood above her, right next to the bed.

Orange eyes, hair shockingly white in the dim light from the window.

_Goddamn, he's creepy._

"What time is it?"

"3:06."

_Who the hell says "3:06"?_

She felt her jaw clench. Less than two hours of sleep. This better be good.

She started to sit up. "Wesker, what the fuck-"

He stopped her mid-sentence with his hand over her mouth, head tilted, listening. She froze.

He held up four fingers. Then he held up five.

Fear coursed through her. Four? Five? They never traveled in that big of a group - banding together meant sharing more of whatever they caught. Were they that desperate already?

Clambering out of bed, she let him grab her arm and silently lead her out of the room. His fingers – bare, he never wore gloves anymore – were warm against her skin. Almost comforting. They slipped down her arm, and she grabbed them before he could pull away. He looked at her, let her hold onto him. She laced her fingers with his.

* * *

They passed the living room. Five shadows swayed outside the house. Hunting. Searching.

The monsters moaned pitifully, eager for just a single morsel.

They sneaked out to the car – which they had parked near the side of the house – and drove away. The beasts tried to follow, but in a matter of seconds they were left behind and out of sight.

They slept in the little Japanese import that night, far from the house.

She had given him the back so he could stretch out as much as possible, his head resting behind her seat. He'd said nothing about their touching. He hadn't even reacted. After she was sure he was asleep, she leaned back all the way back, turned over, and listened to him breathe.

Sleep came easily.

* * *

She didn't wake until nearly noon the next day, when he was driving. He'd let her doze through the morning, pulling down the sun visor to keep the light from her eyes.

When he saw her stir, he pulled off the road at the nearest store without her even having to ask.

* * *

The can of food was getting cold under her arm as she looked around, noting the emptiness of the forest. Devoid of all life.

Nothing new.

_He's a waste of your time._

She didn't listen.

_He's dead. What part of that don't you understand?_

She shook her head, brushing some snow off a nearby log and taking a seat. It was still wet, and she shuddered when the water soaked through her pants and chilled her skin. Absently she drummed her fingers on the top of the can, trying to figure out what she was waiting for.

A little after a hour she gave up, set the food in the snow, and climbed back down the hatch. Disappointed, but still hopeful.

_Maybe tomorrow. Give him time to crawl out of his grave_.

The Serpent laughed. She didn't.

* * *

When she crawled out of the bunker the next day, the food by the log was gone.

She blinked in astonishment, searching around and kicking up snow just to be sure that it really wasn't there. A pack of Uroborii would have no interest in such a thing. Any animal that was left wouldn't either.

She felt her breath get ragged as she looked around, searching on all sides and carefully calling his name. The last thing she wanted was for Wesker to hear her.

Still, whatever possessed him to hide was stronger than the temptation of _her_, and there was nothing she could do to coax him out.

* * *

The Serpent tried to plant the idea that maybe Wesker had come out and taken it, but she quickly dismissed it. He never went outside, and if he did, she would know. She was hypersensitive to his whereabouts.

She set down more food (Clam Chowder - Chris's favorite) and slid back into the dark confines of her prison.

Wesker didn't ask about the canned food missing – not that he noticed.

Maybe he did and wasn't saying anything.

That seemed to be a bad habit of his.

* * *

On a Thursday, Chris Redfield came out of his grave as she was setting down a can of corned beef hash.

Her heels left deep, broken trails in the snow. The hatch got farther and farther away, the rancid smell of filthy flesh and the taste of dirty skin making her head light.

She clawed at the arm around her waist, dug her nails into the back of the hand that covered her mouth, but he was still strong enough to resist her. She was being kidnapped by a skeleton, the ribs hidden under his jacket jutting out against her spine – the bones ground together painfully.

With the hatch no longer in sight she was released, falling into the snow – fresh from the blizzard.

She spun, expecting the shock of finally seeing him, but still overwhelmed by it. He was standing in front of her, expression grim and troubled – the eyes of a man who had lost everything.

"Chris..." Her voice was so quiet, a cloudy whisper among the trees.

He stood there, so familiar, a dusty old memory pulled out and wiped clean. He was so gaunt, his cheeks hollow, his eyes sunken, his hair matted and around his shoulders. He had a long beard – tangled and unkempt. A once proud, strong man, now skin and bones.

"Why did you run from me?"

Her eyes moved back to his face, saddened. "I'm sorry. I was scared. I didn't know... I... you weren't real."

Her heart broke. He couldn't even look at her. She wanted to touch him, tell him how much she'd missed him, how sometimes her memories of him were what kept her alive.

But she was glued to the spot and no words would come. She could only stare. She wondered if she had become as dead inside as Wesker.

"I've been watching you, Jill." His breath was foggy in the cold air. "I saw _him_. I saw you with him."

She was afraid. "No, Chris. It's not like that. You don't-"

He picked up the shotgun he'd propped against a tree trunk. She had her hands over her mouth.

"Chris. Chris, what are you doing? Just wait. We'll figure this out. Just give me some time. I can talk to him-"

He was at the hatch before she could do anything.

* * *

"Can I please finish my coffee?"

His 5 o'clock shadow was rough against her throat, his lips hot on her skin. She smiled.

"It's going to get cold." She insisted, trying to pull away, but not really _trying_.

He took her back to her bed and had her again, the slats of the blinds striping their bodies with morning sun. She was on her back, at the edge of the bed, while he stood. He held her hands.

* * *

It was their first night together, the night before.

And it was everything they'd imagined it would be - warm, but not cuddly; soft, but not weak; deep, but not intense. It was good sex. All-American sex between a midwestern boy and cornfed girl. It felt like summer.

He was a giving lover, for sure. But he'd need more lessons on the female orgasm. And she was an eager lover. But she hated to swallow and he'd laughed with her after about her fear of the taste. They were imperfect together. It felt like home, even for a man who had never known such a place and a woman who grew up hating hers.

* * *

He finished but stayed inside, his fingers on her thighs.

"I love you."

She stared at him.

Jill wasn't an "easy" girl, but she wasn't the hardest either. She'd had her share of failed attempts at keeping a guy, her share of first date fuck-ups and next-day regrets and _"I'll give you a call"_s. But never once had a man said _that_ to her after sex. After... one date.

She studied him in the new light (literally and figuratively).

_He didn't look crazy._

_He didn't act crazy - at least at work._

_But he must be._

_Or he's a complete asshole who likes watching a girl fall on her face for him._

Any way, Jill avoided his calls and was only cordial at the station for the next week. She couldn't risk a man like him. He was handsome, therefore dangerous. He was charming, therefore deadly. He was fun, therefore trouble.

And she loved him too in a way, after only one date - therefore, he was not worth the risk.

He found her outward disdain for him amusing, intriguing.

He badgered her into another late-night dinner.

* * *

After the second date, he told her he wanted to marry her.

She laughed, the moon on her pillow, in his eyes.

He didn't know any poetry, so he made up his own for her. He flirted with her even as she lie naked next to him. He found her pretty even though he'd had all of her so quickly.

* * *

They would crawl into bed after work most days, and sometimes they would have sex, other times not. It was just the safest place to be.

He would tell her, over and over, about how he loved her, and she would smile and blush.

He liked that she couldn't say it back - he liked her hesitation.

He knew that one day, she'd admit it and he'd feel like she'd never been with another man before _him_, never pleasured someone else the way she did _him_.

When she decided to tell him, he could forget about the ghosts of her past lovers and maybe he could even forget how the Captain looked at her... and how she looked at him, too.

* * *

_"To live in this world, you must be able to do three things: to love what is mortal; to hold it against your bones knowing that your own life depends on it; and when the time comes, to let it go, to let it go..."_

_ - Mary Oliver _


	15. Chapter 15

_"Love never dies a natural death. It dies because we don't know how to replenish its source. It dies of blindness and errors and betrayals. It dies of illness and wounds; it dies of weariness, of witherings, of tarnishings."_

_Anais Nin_

* * *

Jill Valentine.

Jillian Marie Valentine.

Jilly-Bean Valentine.

Jill.

Their first meeting had included a spilled cup of coffee, loose curse words and false assumptions concerning her relationship status. He had been attracted to her from the moment she had slapped him across the face after he drenched the front of her uniform in hot drink.

Forest Speyer called it destiny. Barry said it was the most fateful first meeting he'd ever seen. Chris Redfield, never admitting to anyone but himself, knew it had been nothing more than inattention on his side. He had been distracted by the all too inviting cleavage of the RPD front desk secretary.

* * *

There was no warmth in the first words they exchanged after years of separation.

The air between them was as cold as the Oregon winter.

Chris wanted the truth. He wanted to lay his hands around truth's throat and choke it to death.

He realized that once he had found her, he didn't want Jill Valentine anymore.

He wanted Albert Wesker.

* * *

That initial training session was awkward for the entire team. Jill was the first woman on the squad and while she wasn't the only female police officer of the RPD, Chris wasn't the type of guy to beat a lady.

Not that she looked particularly vulnerable in her cargo pants and tank top. She had shapely arms, strong arms. A perfectly sculpted upper body - for a female. From what he heard, she'd been with the Deltas before STARS.

Still... she was a _girl_ to Chris. A pretty girl. With nice arms. A girl he would sleep with. Not a girl who could take him down.

She taught him the meaning of _respect_ that day.

When Barry lost to her, he blamed it on a stiff back (it was indeed stiff after she managed to flip him. He wheezed for an hour afterward).

Chris failed with the excuse that he slipped during a kick (slipped when she kicked his legs out from under him... something about only needing 4 pounds of pressure to smash a knee cap... he was lucky to escape with both intact).

Brad surrendered before the fight even started ("No, I'll skip. Doesn't feel right, punching a girl and stuff.").

Captain Wesker stepped up, expecting to demonstrate prowess, no doubt.

Jill Valentine was the first and only person to give _him_ a bloody nose.

As he wiped the scarlet from his upper lip, Jill was apologizing, cooing. Her hand on his arm, rubbing. He assured her he was fine and sulked away to the locker room.

Chris was the only one to see him slyly smiling as he held his hand over his nose, red seeping through his fingers.

After that, he never fought her again.

* * *

The hatch was all he saw, all he heard, all he needed.

He barely felt Jill, tugging then yanking at his arm, begging for him to reason.

_What makes you think that you can win against him now?_

But nothing could distract Chris from going through with the plan he'd perfected over the duration of a dozen years.

For vengeance.

For the six billion cries of agony.

For Death, who waited with open arms for Albert Wesker.

_What makes you think you can win me back now?_

For Jill.

* * *

A week after her recruitment into S.T.A.R.S., Chris decided to go the bold way and play out his hand before the dreaded _friendship_ card made it into the deck.

Simple - Movies. Dinner. Bed.

It had a fifty-fifty percent rate of success.

He was gonna do it. He was gonna ask.

Fifty-fifty, right?

Actually, one hundred percent fail.

Leaning in the doorway of the office stood his _objet du desir_. Short, brunette hair, accentuating the curve of her neck. Form-fitting tactical shirt. Long, slender fingers holding this weeks reports to her chest, and then his mind stared to wander _(what could she do with those fingers...?)._

Her charming smile _(nude lipstick, gloss)_.

Her hip pushed out _(such a nice tight little ass)._

Her decidedly male boots on such small, feminine feet _(... leave them on, maybe?)_.

Jill Valentine _(Jilly-Bean Valentine)_.

Flirting with his Captain.

* * *

Thirty-eight rungs led down into the Devil's lair.

The first few were the easiest. He was driven by hate.

In the middle, he hesitated. He was overwhelmed with doubt.

At the end, he stopped.

Fear.

If he killed Wesker now, would the story be over?

* * *

Umbrella logos papered to every wall. From the ladder, a corridor led deeper into the warren, two doors branching off on either side.

He headed towards the illuminated room to his right.

It was the lab.

* * *

"I'm fine. Really. It's fine."

The doctor was working a curved needle through Chris's bicep. Jill was standing over him, biting her nails.

"Getting fucking shot is not 'fine', Chris. Shit. Fucking shit."

He rolled his eyes and then hissed as the stitching needle dug in again.

"You're over-reacting, babe. Way over-reacting. It went through real clean. I might not even scar, right Doc?"

The doctor nodded, not looking up.

"Oh my God, Chris, you were shot! You're a police officer!"

The doctor looked up.

"Shhh!" Chris glared at her, and then looked around the emergency room to see if anyone had been alerted by her shrillness.

"How did this happen? Did you fire back? We have to report this." She rubbed her face, shook her head.

"No, _Jill_, we really don't, okay? I'm fine. And I didn't open fire on him."

The doctor finished, tied the end, and then cut the extra thread.

"Can I leave now?" He wanted to get out of there. He didn't want to file any reports, he didn't want any scene, he didn't want anyone else to know who he really was. He stood.

"You'll be ready in a few minutes, Mr. Redfield. Going to finish up the paperwork right now. A nurse will be around. She'll give you the prescription for the antibiotic and wrap you up." He flipped through Chris's chart, signing several forms. "Make sure you get in to your general physician, alright? Those aren't the dissolving kind."

He walked out, closing the curtain behind him.

Chris began to peel off the hospital gown. He grimaced as he pulled on the tee, Jill watching.

"I drove... so I guess I'll head home. You wanna come over? We can grab somethin' to eat. What do you feel like, babe?" He was tucking his wallet into his back pocket, slipping on his tennis shoes, talking fast, moving faster. "Waffle House? Ready to get your hashbrowns scattered and slapped and slopped, or whatever?"

"Chris, what are you doing? You have to wait." Her eyes were wide.

"Oh, fuck them. I'm fine. Let's go. I need a shower and then-"

He was cut off as the curtain was thrown back.

* * *

Years after the end of the world, with Uroboros at the top of the food chain, Wesker still experimented in an abandoned Umbrella hideout, as if the apocalypse had never found this little underground haven.

For a moment, Chris wondered what the hell he could be researching.

Who did he want to play God to? Hadn't he noticed that everyone was dead?

Apart from _her_. Jill Valentine.

Chris leveled the shotgun at Wesker's back.

He pulled the trigger.

And the Devil bled.

* * *

The Captain stood there, looking oddly disheveled, even for two am.

His slacks were wrinkled, dress shirt untucked on one side, unbuttoned around the neck.

Wait.

_Was that lipstick on his collar?_

Holy. Shit.

Wrapping his head around Albert Wesker getting laid was more jarring than being shot.

Jill was staring at the smudge of red too. A strange expression on her face.

"What the hell happened, Redfield?"

Jesus Christ, _that_ voice...

Chris's shoulders dropped and he stared at Jill, frustrated. "Really? You called _him_? Really, Jill?"

She shrugged, apologetic.

"Answer me right now. What could you possibly have been doing on Rochester at two in the morning, Redfield?"

Chris sighed. "Captain, everything is fine. Just... everyone needs to like, step back and take a deep breath."

"'_Take a deep breath'?_ Don't ever speak to me like that! You are an officer of the law! Everything about this situation is completely unacceptable!"

And now the entire first floor was watching. Chris could feel himself turning red.

Nurses and doctors had scooted out on rolling chairs to see the rookie cop getting his ass handed to him.

Furious, Chris reached around Wesker and Jill and jerked the curtains closed.

The patients and staff continued to watch and eavesdrop, but now the drama had been reduced to three pairs of feet and silhouettes.

"Please, sir, keep it down!" He whispered.

"Answer... me... now, Chris. And make it good."

He paused, licked his lips and looked up in the florescent lights. "I was picking up Claire. She went to a party. It got rough. That's it. End of story."

He grabbed Jill's arm and made motions of leaving.

Until he felt Wesker's hand, balled in the back of his T-shirt, jerking him back.

Chris smiled at the audacity.

If the man had been _anyone_ but Albert Motherfucking Wesker...

"Yes... sir?"

They were about the same height, looking right into each other's eyes. Chris's made fists with his hands. He didn't want this to come to blows, at least not here, not now. But the guy had really been riding his last nerve for a while...

"You're trying to tell me that someone shot you while you... picked up your little sister? From a party? In the worst part of town? At two in the morning?" He was quiet, threatening. An inch from Chris's face.

Chris didn't blink or flinch or back down. "Yes."

Wesker glared, his eyes narrowing. "You're filing a formal report, Redfield."

"But I'm not pressing charges."

"I don't care."

"I'll do it Monday."

"You'll do it now."

"I need to shower, sir." His shirt was stained with his own blood.

"It can wait. I'll drive you."

"My car is here."

"Jill can follow and then you can bring her back. Give her your keys."

Chris's nostrils flared, barely enough to notice. He yanked out of Wesker's grip, tossed Jill his keys and stomped off down the emergency room corridor.

Wesker looked at her. She shook her head.

She had no answer.

* * *

He had not noticed her jump down after him. _But of course she had._ The marionette needed to protect her puppeteer before he managed to cut off the strings.

"Chris!"

He removed himself from her clutch. Knocked her away with the butt of the shotgun. She stumbled, dazed, hit the wall.

"Chris, _no_!" she pleaded. "Please!"

He raised the weapon again. Wesker was staggering to his feet behind one of the lab tables. Broken glass crunched beneath his boots.

The sound was swallowed by the second gunshot.

* * *

"Soon. I know. Do not, Nadia. Well, that's your choice. You can let it go and we can move on or you can continue to think that your idle threats scare me."

Chris watched him, hunched over the desk in the darkened office, running a hand through his Ken doll hair, holding the corded phone in the other.

"Nadia! Enough! I'm coming home and if your attitude will not improve tonight,_ get the fuck out of my bed!_"

Chris ducked back around the corner, waited. He heard Wesker's footfalls and gathered himself.

"Hey. I finished." He held up the report.

Wesker didn't stop for him. "Wonderful. Turn it in. I'll see you Monday. Try not to get killed."

He watched the Captain take the stairs two at a time as he left the police department.

* * *

3:40 am.

Jill sat in a chair, sleeping. Waiting for him.

A good girlfriend.

Chris leaned over the counter, reaching under the glass, handing the officer on duty his report.

"So, what the hell happened, Redfield?" the cop asked as he stamped the cover.

"You can read all about it." Chris smiled.

The officer paused. A $100 bill fell out from between the sheets of the report. He felt the money between his fingers and looked at the young man on the other side of the glass.

"When you're finished... do me a favor, Rob. Make it go away."

Rob folded the bill and slipped it in his wallet.

As the report about Chris Redfield's run-in on Rochester found itself being fed into the shredder under his desk.

* * *

If there was one thing Chris had learned over the years, then it was that you could not win a fair fight against a God.

He knew the shotgun could never really kill Wesker.

He questioned whether _any_ gun would kill Wesker.

He wasn't always the smartest guy.

He wasn't always the strongest guy.

But that was why he'd gotten so good at cheating.

* * *

_"'Tis no sin to cheat the devil."_

_Daniel Defoe_


	16. Chapter 16

_"Let you look sometimes for the goodness in me, and judge me not."_

_- Arthur Miller_

* * *

Hitting the water from such a height felt like hitting cement.

Even to him.

Every bit of oxygen was forced from his lungs as they were plunged into darkness.

The ocean closed in around them. Icy water. Strong waves.

He reached for her, pulled her in by her arm, swam up with her tight to his side.

She was limp.

Even then, as he broke the surface, gasping, cruel rain pouring down on them, he knew she was gone.

* * *

Wesker was getting up - much too quickly for Chris's liking. In nanoseconds, he would be at Chris's throat. He'd seen how fast an injured Wesker could move and it was truly something to behold.

Without thinking, Chris cheated, played dirty. Shotgun aimed at Jill, who was backed against the wall of the lab.

It was a shit move, even he'd admit that much. But the base part of him knew he'd make good on the threat if Wesker didn't stop. There was a big difference between the Chris of Then and the Chris of Now.

Wesker bled profusely, a ragged half-moon missing from his right shoulder. He heaved. He was on fire with his own anger.

* * *

On the shore, he laid her down.

He listened for breath, for life.

He ripped off a glove, felt for a pulse.

He called her name.

He shook her.

He draped her over his arm and beat her back, hoping she'd choke up the sea water.

Eventually, he stopped.

He held her to his chest, kneeling on the rocky beach, waiting for his people.

He could not feel her heart - only his own.

_See? It's there, this wretched thing,_ he wanted to say. _It beats. It suffers still._

Instead, he willed her to live. He cursed and threatened her into living.

_This was not in the cards, Jill._

_

* * *

_

He took a step.

Chris raised his eyebrows, aiming arm tightening.

"Stop. You don't know what you're doing. It's me you want, not her."

Chris could feel what wasn't being said. There was something there: fear. _Fear?_ For Jill Valentine's life?

A plea... then a threat. "I will rip you apart, Chris."

_What the hell was going on here?_

The feral Chris grinned. Challenged.

He didn't see Jill bringing a leg up, knocking the shotgun from his hand.

He definitely didn't see Wesker... until he was he was laying under him.

Chris fell out with one punch.

He hadn't slept so well in years.

* * *

Excella was waiting for him on the helipad when he arrived.

She looked afraid.

"Albert!" Yelled over the blades. "Are you harmed? There was an accident? Are you hurt? Albert! Answer me!"

She stared at the bundle in his arms. A body. Wrapped in his trench coat.

He didn't acknowledge her as he walked past.

"Keep her away tonight." He ordered one of the guards.

Excella stood in the freezing rain, make-up running. She moved and was blocked. The armed men apologized, suggested she retire for the evening.

She was unconvinced.

"Albert?"

She stamped her foot. A child in a slutty dress. A child wearing her mother's jewelry.

_"Albert!"_

_

* * *

_

He had her by the hair. "You're a deceitful little bitch. I should have known."

Jill struggled. It was all very reminiscent of a time long ago. She believed them to have been past all of that.

Abruptly, he shoved her down and away. She curled up at his feet.

He brought his foot back, preparing to kick her. He stopped when she spoke.

"I read the journal."

His lip curled. Disgust. "You _whore._"

She glared, a hand held up. "Listen. I didn't... I didn't bring him here."

Wesker laughed at her, shaking his head.

She pushed up on an unsteady arm. "He followed me. I saw him, when you were sick. When I left... and came back to you."

He moved toward her then. She winced, waited for a strike, a blow. All that came was his voice.

"And you've been feeding him, taking care of that mongrel? _Like a stray dog?_ You kept this from me?"

"No! No, I haven't!"

They regarded at each other. Wesker resumed pacing. His shoulder was healing, but the aching reminder goaded him into revenge.

"I'm going to kill him when he wakes up, Jill. And you're going to watch."

* * *

In the lab, he barked orders.

White coats scattered, hurried, rushed in every direction.

With a sweep of his arm, he knocked everything off of a lab table. Metal trays and instruments clattered to the ground, rolled and ricocheted everywhere.

He laid her down.

He stopped to look at her face. He ran the fingers of his bare hand over her cheek, her eyebrow, down the slope of her nose.

She was as unremarkable as the last time he'd seen her, all those years before, in the city that ceased to exist. But she was everything he'd remembered.

He let the hair of her ponytail fall through his fingers. So much longer than he recalled. He lifted her head, pulled off the ball cap. He loosed her hair from the elastic, spread it out around her on the cold metal table.

This woman had tried to kill him and nearly succeeded.

He couldn't make himself care.

He saw only that this woman was so ferocious, she would give her life for a partner. A loyalty. An idea.

_A man._

He could not tear his eyes from her.

* * *

"But sir, she's been dead for hours. Look, rigor mortis is setting in-"

Lab technicians and scientists screamed as the shot echoed.

Blood and brains of the deceased colleague splattered several terrified doctors.

"She. Is. Not. Dead!"

His arm was still out, Magnum ready for the next execution. They could see him shaking no matter how hard he tried to hide it.

His loss of control was as horrific as the weapon that had blown a hole through a man seconds ago.

"She is not _dead._ She is _broken._ You will fix her. All of you. Right now." He spoke calmly then, though reason had escaped him.

No one moved. Many continued to cling to each other.

His pupils contracted into pit viper slits. They had never seen him without his sunglasses.

The rumors were all true. He had made himself a monster.

"_Fix her!_ And don't you dare stop until she breathes!"

He pointed the gun in the direction of the huddled lab techs.

"Now is the time to prove you value your lives, you worthless cretins! Show me how much you want to live!"

* * *

Chris lay, unmoving, on the cement floor of the lab.

"Wait. What you wrote, in the journal-"

"I doubt you understood anything I wrote in that journal."

"I understood enough to know you can't breed."

He had his back to her. He was thankful for it. His face would have betrayed him. "Shut up. You know nothing."

"I know you can't do this. You're missing something. All this shit - it's useless, unless-"

"Be _very _careful, Jill."

"Unless you use Chris."

Wesker looked at her over his good shoulder. He waited. A sign for her to continue.

She got up, stood. "You can use him. To get what you need."

He turned to her completely then.

"That enzyme. He has it. Lots of it."

Eyes meeting. She smiled.

"Wouldn't it be poetic, Al?"

* * *

They used the experimental chest plate.

It was ugly.

It was meant to be refined.

It was meant for testing before application on a human.

It wasn't meant for _this._

But there was no time for sleek design; there was no time for adequate testing.

He had already killed four people.

Four people that did not value their own lives enough.

The scientists and lab assistants worked, stepping over the bodies of those who were their friends, stepping over the bodies of those who weren't their friends. Brilliant people whose names they would never know.

* * *

When she was close to him, she let her gaze fall to the floor. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry I didn't tell you, Al."

Against his will, against his logic, his own trickery, he was charmed.

She looked up then, pinned him with her haunted stare. Such sad, apologetic eyes under heavy, long lashes, wet with the beginnings of tears.

"All that really matters is me getting pregnant, right?"

She had never really acknowledged her role in all of it until that moment. He felt a strange thrill when she said the word "pregnant". It made him agitated and hot and powerful. Her words were a ruse though.

He saw through her... yet he was unable to deny her.

She was like any and every woman before her and any and every woman that might come after. She held the secret of life... and she was ransoming his better judgement for it.

She inched closer and he inched away. Tables turned on the drop of a dime.

"I can talk Chris down when he comes to. You just have to let me try."

Wesker watched her, eyes narrowed. The psychic had warned him. She had specifically warned him against her - the girl to whom he was bound.

_Eve._

"If it doesn't work, Al... I'll kill him myself."

Something in the way she said it made him believe her.

Something in the way she said it made him think that neither he nor Chris Redfield stood a chance.

* * *

They drained her lungs. Lungs that had been punctured and filled with blood. Collapsed. She had drowned in her own life fluid.

They replaced what she'd lost; a constant drip, a constant transfusion.

Nearly every rib was fractured - many broken cleanly, some pushed through the thin walls of organs.

Cartilage and muscles and tendons punched out, shifted, destroyed.

Her chest was crushed.

The result of her impact with the rock face as they fell.

They repaired what they could.

The rest would be up to him.

* * *

"The most direct route to reanimation, sir, is your strain. Do we proceed with that?"

His eyes flashed. "As a last resort. Find another way."

Even as he demanded a miracle, he wasn't willing to create an equal.

Not yet.

He told himself he would, if need be.

He told himself he was not so afraid.

* * *

"Will you let me try?"

Her voice was so soft. He could almost touch it. The fur of a white rabbit.

Jill watched Chris's body. "He's the key, Al. He's your key."

She looked up at him again. Her bottom lip glistened, her hair loose from his cruelty. Her appearance suggested something other than what had taken place. She was lovely.

Deadly.

"He's the only one we've found. Wonder if there's really nobody else? You have to take this chance. You have to trust me..."

* * *

They set the piece in her chest.

Fastened it to the few ribs that were able to support it.

They started the feed.

Everyone was covered in her blood. Everyone was covered in the blood of the seven that lay on floor. The seven that did not value their lives enough.

They all stared at the monitor, numb and mindless from 15 hours of surgery on her corpse.

They held their collective breath.

Everything hinged on this dead woman.

Wesker held his breath too, Magnum in his right hand. The hand the hung helplessly next to his side.

The hand that did not belong to a god.

Because gods could create life, while he could only take it.

* * *

_He's the key, Al._

The repetition of her nickname for him was hypnotic. She said it with a breathiness that made his pulse quicken, his over-heated blood rush in and flood the forbidden places of his body - down below... and that emptiness in his chest.

He was unable to fight this kind of war. Wholly unprepared for her new weaponry.

Jill was the gentlest, most treacherous viper he'd ever met.

He didn't even feel the sting of her poisonous bite.

* * *

The first beep made them all jump.

The second and third elicited gasps.

The fourth and fifth and sixth made some weep.

Every beep, increasing in frequency, increasing in strength, was another promise of seeing family again, of starting a family, of escape.

They parted to let him through. They fled from him.

He saw nothing but her.

He stared at the tubes that wound in and out of her mangled body. A machine breathed for her and a newly synthesized chemical, p30, held her together - forced the life into her.

"Will she live? Off the machines?"

The lead doctor refused to make eye contact. He focused on the gun. "I can't promise that, sir."

Wesker moved slowly, as if in water. His hand hovered over her, could find no place to touch.

"Will she wake?" He barely recognized his own voice.

"She may. I recommend keeping her in coma for at least a few months, even if she does regain consciousness. I should tell you, sir, I'm not sure... about the long-term effects of p30."

Wesker held up his hand, waved the worry away.

"She might not be the same, sir. When you bring her out."

He said nothing.

They did not know who this woman was, or how she had ended up there. They knew only that he would gladly kill for her, that she drove him to kill indiscriminately.

She was the most dangerous kind of woman, broken or not.

* * *

"Get something to tie him up with."

She stared at him, unsure about the order.

"Now, Jill! Before I change my goddamn mind!"

She disappeared down the hallway.

Wesker crouched next to the unconscious man, held an eyelid open, looked into a familiar blue eye.

_What are the odds of this, old friend?_

_

* * *

_

Excella tried very hard to please him.

Nothing worked anymore - none of her old tricks.

She pulled out all the stops. Put on shows to rival Las Vegas.

He would have none of it.

He would watch her writhe. Watch while she touched herself. He would watch while she rubbed against him - a cat in heat. Watch as she slipped in and out of lace, silk, and leather. He would watch as she crawled on hands and knees to him (a game he once loved), and he watched as she undid his pants, and then he looked away.

He was repulsed by her now - ashamed at her displays of vulgarity. Displays that he had ordered she oblige months before. She was not worthy anymore. She was unclean.

* * *

She had changed for him.

He had wanted her to have bigger breasts. He'd outright said it to her: "Your breasts are too small." No one had ever spoken to her in such a way.

But a month later, she found herself on an operating table, counting backwards from 100 as the world's foremost plastic surgeon swabbed iodine on her chest.

Albert wanted her to be a trimmer woman. So she exercised until she passed out of exhaustion.

He had wanted her to have long hair. So she let hers grow and put it up in a bun everyday - the one he enjoyed undoing just before she pleasured him.

Albert liked to unwrap expensive gifts. So she dressed provocatively in the best of labels - Gucci, Prada, Dior, Galianno, Westwood, and Chanel.

She was a privileged young woman, having grown up in Milan with old world style and even older money.

But her pedigree was not enough for him.

He demanded more and more all the time - English classes to alleviate her "cheap" Italian accent, etiquette for the manners he deemed "too rustic", weaponry lessons because she was "helpless and pathetic".

All of this, so he could reject her - wordless, cold, disgusted.

* * *

She followed him once. She watched _him_ and understood everything.

She watched him stare at the girl in the tube.

The girl with the metal chest.

He had come home with _her_ one night, like a disease from some elicit affair.

The girl with the metal chest had slithered into bed with them, slept between them, stole him away - even while she was suspended, unknowing, in cyrostasis.

A parasite of the worst kind.

He would not speak of her. But he thought of her at all times.

_Chi sei pulcettina?_

_Che cosa hai fatto con Alberto?_

_Che cosa hai fatto?_

Excella tried very hard to please him.

* * *

The girl with the metal chest woke up after a year.

Sleeping Beauty.

Hair now as white as his, eyes as blue as summer cornflowers.

Excella took comfort in the unnatural sallow tone of her skin.

Albert seemed not to notice her flaws.

The heat rolled off of him in waves as the technicians lifted her nude body from the draining tube.

She shivered as they toweled her dry, her eyes squinting, full of fear and wild anger.

Her vitals were checked - heart rate, pupil dilation, reflex response.

She was... perfect.

* * *

Jill Valentine was full of surprises.

"_It's the most incredible thing I've ever seen, really, sir."_

"_She is the first of her kind, sir."_

"_Her cells just literally absorbed it. All of it. It's gone. Not a trace."_

A blood sample, simple routine tests, resulted in a flagged reaction.

An alarm went off, the program responding to an abnormality.

The tech wheeled his chair over, read the spreadsheet. Didn't believe.

Several tests later and the hypothesis had been validated.

#1157012 was indeed immune to the Uroboros Virus. And... several others.

Antibodies programmed to decimate antigens of the same strain.

Repeated exposures... genetic disposition... other variables. So many possible reasons, so many possible explanations.

Jill Valentine was his perfect storm.

* * *

She could fight.

And she began fighting as soon as she came out of the glass womb.

She took one of them out with a scalpel she'd lifted from a medical tray, left too close. She sliced his face - a clean, diagonal slash. Blind in one eye. Disfigured for life.

During that scuffle, she caught another tech by the hair. She yanked him down and bashed his head against the metal railing of the hospital bed she was to be to cuffed to. A concussion, broken cheekbone, several lost teeth.

Yet another, she bit. She mauled his arm so badly, he underwent 20-odd stitches, a round of heavy antibiotics, a tetanus shot.

And Wesker had smiled, clapped, laughed to see such sport.

Jill had always found a way to entertain him.

* * *

She struggled; frantic, manic. Pulled and fought against the unyielding restraints. All four of her lethal limbs, pinned.

The bed jarred, rocked with her efforts. Back arching, hips and chest thrust out, all that she was able to move. The beautiful red device caught the light and glittered like some alien talisman.

She grunted and growled and screamed like a panther.

She was inhuman in her rage.

She was _phenomenal_.

He stood at her bedside until he saw her give up.

And how she relented... how she cried. Big beautiful tears. All for him.

He pulled off a glove, finger by finger. She watched.

He touched her face then.

His hand floated above the chest plate, her ribs rising and falling with such speed, lungs fatiguing.

He drifted down her side to trace the tattoo he had given her all those years ago.

Her skin twitched deliciously.

It excited him. All of it.

"What a sad little tiger you are, Jill," he whispered.

Her bottom lip trembled and she turned her face away from him. Something out of a movie.

He leaned over the bed, close enough to hear, out of the reach of her feline teeth.

"Do you know me? Hmm? Do you remember?"

He hadn't expected her to speak. But she did.

Her first words were intoxicating - weak and full of terror, as honest as any she'd ever spoken to him. He would remember them always. He would hear them in his dreams, so few and far between. Dreams that woke him up, so vivid they made him ache.

_"Please, Wesker. I'm sorry. Please..."_

* * *

Excella sighed. Signed on the line.

$6.2 million dollars for physical and psychological damages sustained under employment of Tricell Pharmaceuticals Incorporated. Undisclosed medical injury occurring on the job.

$6.2 million wasn't a huge sum. The tech knew better than to push his luck.

Hush money - she had gotten very accustomed to handing it out since _he _had slinked into her life some five years ago.

"_Questo é il ciclope? Colui che incontrato il bisturi?"_

Her secretary nodded.

_Goddamn him. _

If he wasn't killing top scientists himself, his nasty little pet was hacking up their faces.

He should have just disposed of the cyclops too. $6.2 million. Gone.

Her parents rolled in their graves.

She crossed herself and muttered a prayer for their souls, pushing the paper over.

The notary next to her stamped and dated the form.

"Next."

Ricardo Irving, sniveling little lapdog that he was, handed her another document.

Another needless and overpriced request requiring _her_ approval, _her_ money.

_Oh well. Soon, there won't be a need to pay off to these peons. _

They would all be dead.

She laughed a little.

"Next, darling. Come now, move this along. I have to get my nails done."

* * *

_"Love is whatever you can still betray. Betrayal can only happen if you love."_

_ - John LeCarre_


	17. Chapter 17

_"Did you really carry me when I was asleep? / Did you try to defend me when I was weak? / Did you pick me up that lonely night when the lights died out and I turned to the gray side?"_

_ - Oh Land, "Lean On Me"_

* * *

They were all confined in their own little ways.

Tethered or caged or chained – it was all the same.

She wrapped the belt around his torso – looped it nice and tight. She clipped his wings to match theirs, and anchored his restless soul to their sea.

Zip ties around his ankles and the legs of the chair. Zip ties around his wrists, arms bound behind his back.

Tides would come and go, she was sure. But soon, soon they would all float on the same surface.

* * *

"Don't drop that on your toes!"

Her smile was radiant as she stepped aside and allowed them passage into her apartment. Barry grunted a response, his brow glistening with sweat. It was a chilly day. Not cold enough for Chris to be wearing a jacket, but cool enough for Claire to have a scarf thrown haphazardly around her neck.

She didn't come in – wouldn't come in. She leaned against the car outside, the forest green of Chris's shitty pick-up clashing loudly with her red hair and blue eyes.

Jill frowned. The other Redfield hadn't been happy about the move, from what Chris had told her. She had thrown a fit, complaining about never being able to settle anywhere. From jobs to complications to girlfriends, Chris always came up with an excuse.

He told her that he never planned these things, and that he didn't mean for them to happen. Jill knew he was just a restless soul.

She wondered how long she could keep him to herself.

Chris wasn't the best at monogamy. He didn't even have to tell her so – she saw it in the way he _moved_, in the way he _smiled_. He was beautiful and free and wild. She would never get close enough to clip those wings.

She shook her head, trying to let go of those thoughts, those stale fears.

He was _here_.

And Claire was too, announcing her presence by cursing at Chris near the car.

Jill had told him to be more understanding – he said he would when Claire decided to act her age and grow up.

Barry and Chris set down the stereo loud enough to make Jill jump. "Hey, don't forget there are people downstairs. Not friendly ones, either," she said, hands on her hips.

"Sorry baby, Barry's getting old." He laughed as Barry tried to reach around and punch him.

Jill turned back in the doorway. Claire was lingering outside, watching faceless strangers pass her on the sidewalk. Autumn phantoms.

"You can come in, you know. I won't bite." She called, a warm smile on her lips. Claire glanced at her, then looked away. Her attitude just as cold as her eyes. Jill chewed her lip. She wasn't really good with kids – not that there were many years between them.

* * *

Her sister's kids would always cry when she held them, and move away if she got near.

"Kids can sense evil," Madison had told her, giggling as she balanced her youngest on her hip.

The Serpent would later tell her that her sister had been closer to the truth than she would have ever thought.

* * *

She sat at the table, her fingers tapping on her forehead. Wesker sat across from her, never really looking at her. The world was so much more interesting _around_ her. He could not look her in the eyes, it seemed.

"Is he secure?" The question was quiet, as if he were afraid to wake the sleeping beast in the chair.

She glanced at Chris, lifting her head slightly, before letting it fall back into her palm. Her fingers tugged her bangs loose, and they tickled her cheeks.

"Seems that way. We'll find out, I'm sure." Her grin was almost cruel.

Someone had spilled paint on the little white rabbit. Not so pure after all.

His half-moon wound was weeping through his shirt as it healed slowly. She stood and approached a cabinet in the far corner of the lab. Withdrawing a first-aid kit she pulled up a chair beside the injured man-god and tugged at his sleeve.

"Off."

He obeyed.

The sticky, bloody mess peeled off, slipped from his hand onto the floor. Red trails dipped and rose over each bulge of sculpted muscle. Finger paint.

A trickle of crimson crossed his heart. A map showing her where to cut and dig deep.

She didn't have to do all that. She had done it without even realizing.

She started to sop up his gory mess, swabbing with sterile gauze pads.

Her mouth watered to see him so _vulnerable_ and _willing_.

* * *

"What was wrong with the house?"

Jill could hear their heated conversation despite the fall winds trying to sweep it away.

She had been innocently taking out the trash while Chris had gone to talk to Claire. She had managed to sit Barry down with a cup of warm coffee before she slipped from the condo – with absolutely no intent of following them.

No. She would never eavesdrop.

_Never._

"Claire, don't do this. Not here. We can go somewhere - "

"Why? Don't want to look like an asshole in front of your _slut_ girlfriend?"

She could almost feel his anger. "Claire, cut the shit. Stop acting like a bitch."

"You still haven't told me why. Is it so you wouldn't have to drive half an hour to bang her?" Even Jill winced at that. "Now I get to hear her moaning all night in next room, instead of down the hall in the old house. This is _just_ like what you did with Willow. Fucking just like it!"

"Jesus, Claire! She's nothing like Willow. She's not that way. You know that!" Claire made a noise in protest. He cut her off. "Will you just stop running your mouth and listen to me for a second?"

"I don't like her."

"You don't like any of my girlfriends."

"Why do you need someone else, Chris? It's always been me and you in the end... why ruin that again? We were doin' so good for once. Just you and me..." She trailed off, upset, rejected. That was all she wanted, to keep her nomad of a brother close.

"Claire-bear, stop. Please? I think –"

"I get a weird vibe from her."

He sighed. Jill leaned away from the garbage, the stench of the dumpster getting to her. She caught a glimpse of Claire opening her mouth again. Chris suddenly grabbed her by the shoulders – rough. She hesitated long enough for him to speak.

"This is serious, Claire. I want to _marry_ her."

She didn't speak, and Jill shut the lid as softly as she could.

"You'll warm up to her, you just have to try. For fuck's sake, _try_ for _me_."

Jill pressed up against the shadow of the complex as Claire broke away and hurried down the sidewalk. Chris called after her, but didn't follow. Redfield's needed their alone time to think things through.

She felt sorry - sorry for Chris and sorry for Claire. And sorry that she knew she could never be this girl's replacement for a sister or a mother.

She headed back to her apartment, keeping to the shadows. A lonely autumn specter.

* * *

It started out with such small things.

Pencils from classmates. Milk from the lunch line. Chips from the convenient store. She finally got caught trying to stuff a book from the library in her bag. The worst thing happened then:

Her father was called.

She trembled in the lobby of the library, people walking in an out, staring at the stringy little rat of a Valentine, her arm wrenched up and held in the death grip of Miss Allen - the old maid librarian.

She wasn't scared of nasty, smelly, old Miss Allen.

No.

She was a seven-year-old tomboy, tough as nails.

She was invincible, with one exception (as any good superhero is bound to have) - her father.

When daddy drank, daddy yelled quite a bit. And no doubt on this Saturday evening, he was drinking.

But on the dangerous drive home he didn't yell at her, didn't scold her. Instead, he looked very pleased.

She shut the car door, dragging her beat-up book bag behind her on the gravel driveway, and met him in front of their house. He didn't unlock the door.

"Want daddy to show you a trick?"

She didn't say anything, watching with wide eyes as he took the key to the front door, the key to the backdoor, and to the garage, and chucked them somewhere in the holly bushes that lined the front of the house. Her jaw dropped.

"Don't bother trying to dig around for them. You'll get real messed up." He mumbled at her.

He handed her a wiry tool, and she got angry.

She teared up, not knowing what he expected her to do, tried to hand the pick back.

He took it, adjusted his glasses, looking down that Valentine nose, peering through the haze of booze.

"Just watch, Jilly."

She did. He was toying around with the lock using the wire. Attention captured, she knelt down beside him. His movements were so hesitant, so slow and careful, almost as if he was a brain surgeon.

There was a click, and he turned the knob, pushing open the door and smiling at her.

"How did you do that, dad?"

He stood, dusting off his knees and stepping inside the doorway. He put the lock-pick back in her hand.

"You'll have to figure that out if you want dinner." Before she could protest the door was shut and locked in her face.

Much of her life continued in the same way.

Learn by experience.

Learn quick.

Daddy was a mean drunk.

* * *

"How did you say you were able to get the money for this place again?" She reached up and twirled a hoop earring to keep from chewing on her fingernails. Bad habit.

They stood awkwardly in the fanciest... well, the only fancy restaurant in Raccoon City.

"My parents left us a little money, Jill. And I work full-time. Jesus. Why the questions? Just let me do something nice for you." He didn't look at her as he answered, flashing the host a boyish grin.

She peered out into the humming tables of rich men and their gold-digging wives and girlfriends. Men twice or even three times their age. Her expression twisted into disgust at the thought of having to screw a guy as old as dirt.

"I hope Claire appreciates the education you're shoving down her throat." She said suddenly.

"Yeah, well, studying keeps other things out of there. Every time I turn around, some kid is trying to put something in her mouth. And she's letting them..."

"Chris! That's horrible!" He turned toward her, looking momentarily surprised.

"What?" He asked.

She didn't try to hide the snarl of laughter. Straight, white teeth, lips curled back.

Some of the closer tables turned to her, glaring at her low-brow _noises_.

Jill felt out of place and looked at the marble beneath her feet.

_You should have stayed in your cage._

They were led to their table without having to wait long, thanks to Chris's almost-too-late reservation.

She didn't order anything too special, just a soda. Someone sober needed to drive them home later anyway. She flicked the glass while Chris ordered appetizers, watching bubbles rise to the surface.

She looked up when his hand reached across the table to cover hers, a grin lighting up his face.

"Look at all these rich pricks. You know they don't eat this shit because they _want_ to. They just want to _say_ they did."

"Did you bring me here so you could make fun of them?" She reflected his smile.

"So _we_ could make fun of them, Jill."

"You're terrible." Her voice turned heads. They had no idea how feral, how _wild_ she could be. Some of them turned up their noses, others simply watched. This happy little couple at a corner table whispering and laughing loudly, disrupting the buzz of politics, bank accounts, and who was taking the yacht to the Bahamas this summer.

They talked about how shitty escargot really was (Jill gagged, Chris laughed, biscuit crumbs falling out of his mouth as he watched her struggle with the garlicky mollusk) and they blew bubbles with their straws into their drinks. She had leaned over and slapped his arm for putting salt in her soda while she was in the bathroom.

They didn't belong here, but they didn't care.

They were the predators in this herd of prey. Fearless and daring, knowing that they wouldn't be bothered or approached because everyone else was so scared of their shameless smiles.

They hadn't know that another threat was present.

They weren't sitting far off, but it was Chris who had spotted them. He rapped the table, gesturing at someone behind her. "I knew it. Look at that bastard. I bet he's got a different one for every night of the week."

Her heart stopped. She knew by Chris's expression who it was. She turned slowly.

The Captain was with someone. It wasn't Dorian.

Her eyes moved to him, over him. Dressed like a black panther from head to toe. Slick blond hair. Jill put her hands in her lap and clawed at the napkin laying over her thighs. The woman was nodding at him. She turned so that they could make out her profile. Why was it he was always with bimbos every time she caught him out?

The girl's dress was cut down too low in the front, too high on the leg, daring and backless and rich. She had on too much make-up. Too much flashy jewelry. But she had the same bobbed hairstyle as Jill - dark, thick and straight. Same soft jaw, pretty blue eyes... a better nose, yet... she was close. _Very_ close.

They could have been sisters.

It was curious given his usual choice in bed partners, to say the least.

"Jesus. I bet he eats here every night," Chris said. "What an asshole." He waited for her to smile, as she always did when they laughed at the Captain.

She couldn't bring herself to be amused.

"Probably." Her voice was soft. She slumped in the booth. She hid.

"How do you think he finds these women? They don't look like Raccoon City. I wonder if they're hookers."

"I don't know." She wished he'd just drop it, talk about something... _anything_ else.

He gave her an odd look.

The waiter gave them the check, stopping to fix Chris with a glare. When he walked away, Jill saw him shake his head. He was probably afraid they'd dine-n-dash.

She felt the sudden, compelling urge to get up and go outside. Telling Chris she didn't feel well and that she needed some air, she faced the winter chill alone. She walked out to the car and pulled out Chris's thick, warm bomber. It smelled like him.

Leaning near the doors of the restaurant, she bunched the jacket around her and stared out at the snow-covered streets. Exhaust belched from the backs of warming cars as rich couples from inside the restaurant stepped out and hissed complaints about the cold.

"I knew _he_ wouldn't come here alone."

She looked up, surprised to find the panther and his plaything standing next to her. Typical Wesker, wearing sunglasses despite the night. She supposed the comment meant that he had talked to Chris at the table. Probably still playing with his food and dumping packets of sugar into her soda.

Suddenly, she felt like the bird whose feathers were clipped. Chris and their relationship the cage that she thrashed in.

"I wouldn't let him go anywhere on his own. You see why," she admitted, sheepish.

"He sounds like a liability."

"He's a lot of fun." She defended.

Wesker smirked.

She looked right into the lenses, right where she knew his eyes would be. She wondered if her doppelganger knew where to look like she did.

Before anything else could be said Chris came outside, giving a brief nod to Wesker before reaching over and wrapping an arm over her shoulders. He steered her away, down the sidewalk.

"You got really quiet in there. You feelin' alright, babe?" he asked, ever caring and warm. She leaned her head against him.

"I'm fine, alright?" She snapped. She hadn't meant to. He heard the resentment in her voice. She tried to cover it. "Just tired."

She noticed that their Captain had stalked off toward his Mercedes, pausing when he opened the door for his date to lean down and brush his lips against hers.

Her alternate universe self folding her long bare legs into the coupe, stretching up to meet his mouth.

Jill had to tear herself away. Her own lips stung from the air.

She turned and pressed her face into Chris's shoulder, mumbling about the cold weather in an effort to hide her red face from him.

* * *

Like the tide the darkness pushed and pulled her. Sometimes she would come close enough to push her fingers through the surface, but she would always sink back down.

He kept her at bay. Holding her under to the point of drowning.

When she opened her eyes for the first time in almost a year, lights blinded her but not before she looked up. He was the first thing she saw when she was born again.

He was her _everything_. Her moon, her stars, her sky.

His eyes – her sun.

She took her first huge gulp of cool air, drying her throat, and she choked on it. _Alive._

She fell against foreign bodies, arms holding her upright. The contact almost scorched her cold, wet skin, and she struggled vainly against them.

She couldn't stop coughing, a slick substance dripping from every part of her. She vomited on the coat of one of them - it was thick, but tasteless, odorless, colorless. The lab tech didn't even flinch.

"Take her to the infirmary."

The rumble of his words didn't register. She was having trouble keeping her eyes open, the liquid that clung to the lashes trying to stick them closed.

_See no evil._

_

* * *

_

She hated when they sedated her.

They did it so they could get their nasty little fingers on her chest, to poke and prod and tug at the metal plate that was wound tight and deep within. They seemed to get such a sick thrill of pulling on it. "Making sure it's healing/bonding/growing over." She knew it was because he liked the way she moaned.

Especially since she'd kicked all of their asses, naked and feminine and helpless as she was.

She was a killing machine.

The restraints were bad enough, but not enough to hold her back. Her tricky wrists were quick to slip from the tight leather to claw at an eye, cheek, ear, nose, or throat that hovered too close. The drugs had been for her mouth mostly; those sharp teeth _not at all _hesitant to sink into soft flesh.

She remembered the taste of blood on her tongue.

"I want bacon." She demanded in her delirium.

Dark lenses shifted toward her, the florescent lights reflecting like tiny planets and stars on the black surface. An endless night sky.

Twins suns - no moon.

"This feels like death row. Don't I get to eat what I want in my last few days?" she asked, eyes half-lidded and staring at him. Her fingers weakly made fists.

He smiled, perpetually amused by her.

"I'm not going to let you die, Jill."

Her mouth twisted, lips pursing as she shifted positions - or tried to. Her hips rolled off the bed, twisting sideways, then slumped back down. Restrained at the ankles. The gown she was wearing slipped up her thigh from the action - pale skin, smooth and unmarred in the artificial light. She almost heard him holding his breath as he watched.

He was so meticulous. Did he keep track of everything? Like the way the gown – a size too large – slipped from her shoulder, the way the V of the neck dipped too low to tease him with the promise of a breast bared, or the way it rolled up the length of her legs while she moved carelessly in her sleep?

"But I did die, didn't I?"

He looked back down at the laptop on the table.

He didn't say anything else.

Knowledge was power.

Power was something she'd have to do without when he was around.

* * *

_"Did you lie for me to feel me safe? / Did you bear with me when I misbehaved? / Far from here, could you feel my fear when the lights died out and I turned to the gray side?"_

_ - Oh Land, "Lean On Me"_


	18. Chapter 18

_No pain, no palm; no thorns, no throne; no gall, no glory; no cross, no crown._

_- William Penn_

* * *

Touch was the first sensation to return.

Although he blinked, he couldn't see her. But he knew it _was_ her.

Tender fingers on his forehead. Down the side of his face. He moaned. Left temple ignited, raging fire.

"Shh..."

He would recognize that voice in a thousand.

Tongue trailing over cracked lips. Copper taste. Dream-monsters in red.

When pressure was applied to his carotid (she checked his pulse) he lunged at her like a rabid animal (like a zombie).

Went for her throat.

Survival instinct.

* * *

Saturday night. The music strained his eardrums, the booze let him forget his worries. There was always a kind of apprehension, cold sweat, a pair of illusionary eyes stalking him.

Three hours into the event Chris _was_ the event, felt as if he had never done anything else in his life but live for the party.

In the crowd someone tugged at his arm. He turned, finding himself holding on to a young blonde, too much cleavage, too much makeup, wearing a skirt that could very well be confused with just underwear. She couldn't be older than seventeen.

The girl rose on her tiptoes, wobbling for a second, leaning in. Her breath was hot on his face, reeking of alcohol, and her voice slurred a little when she spoke into his ear.

"You the man, handsome?"

He swept one arm around her waist, stroking the small of her back, and led her out of the crowd.

"I'm your man, babe. You come with me and it'll be a night you'll never forget."

He doubted that she heard half of it over the blasting music, but it didn't really matter. She followed willingly. They always did.

* * *

Restraints. They'd tied his hands to the chair with leather belts. When he struggled, they squeaked in protest.

"Stop fighting, Chris." Jill. Her voice robotic. Weary.

He jerked at the manacles. He lacked the strength he had once been so proud of.

"Let me go, damnit!" he roared. Like a lion. King of predators. Caged.

Jill sat in an armchair. Watched him rampage from safe distance. Her eyes told volumes of what her voice would hide. This situation caught her off guard. She was afraid, too.

"Calm down, Chris. Please."

"Get these things off of me!"

"If I free you, you'll kill us all."

He stopped struggling. He felt he needed to cooperate, at least a bit. He told her the truth, "No. No. Not you."

Wesker did not move from where he stood, back against the wall, arms crossed. Bandages surfaced under his clean shirt. His eyes gleamed like the hot blood eating itself through the white fabric. Chris wanted to stab his damn pupils out and shove them down his throat. The bastard hadn't said a word yet.

"I can't let you go," Jill said.

But hadn't she left him years ago already?

* * *

There were hardly arguments about prices. The music was too loud, the lights too bright, the mood too good. The girl left with a handful of colored pills for "me and my friends". She also let him know that she had a fucking big crush on this guy, Rob, and that she hoped these little blue kisses would make him have a crush on her too, if only for tonight.

She stumbled off and was swallowed by the mass of bodies. He never saw her or Rob again.

Chris pocketed the cash and got another beer from the bar.

The music picked up. Business did too.

* * *

An hour later, they were still sitting like that. Him restrained, her observing. Wesker had left the room. Not a word.

Jill sighed. The armchair squeaked in unison with his leather manacles.

"I can't believe you've survived all this time."

"Let me go."

"No."

"Let me go, Jill. Let me finish this. I should have ended this years ago. Let me _go."_

The door opened. Wesker returned, carrying two cups. He gave one to Jill, who took it wordlessly. The aroma hit Chris like a sledgehammer.

Coffee.

Jill took a swallow. He gulped, bile and blood from a split lip. His stomach churned. She set the cup aside. He could see how it steamed. Wesker must have brewed it, fresh.

"Are you willing to cooperate?"

It was him who talked. The first words of his mortal enemy were none of hatred or threat, but of collaboration. He gestured to the remaining mug in his hand.

It had to be some wicked plan, for sure.

If somebody had asked him five years ago to surrender for a mocha, Chris would have laughed.

Now, he just nodded.

* * *

She had longer hair than Jill. She had a finer nose, higher cheeks. She was slender, like a model. He thought her legs were prettier than Jill's. He didn't think of Jill a single time as he danced with her, bodies (too) close, trembling, shaking, flying.

He sold her some Hot Ice and watched her mingle with the crowd and didn't think too much about it, because she was just another nameless face he'd never see again.

Later, she introduced him to her friends.

* * *

They moved to the table. Jill and Wesker on one side, Chris on the other. Although they freed him of the restraints, they made sure he kept eye contact with the barrel of his own shotgun. Silence fell over them like a heavy blanket. It was of a more comfortable nature than all the words that had been exchanged so far.

None of them spoke until Chris finished his coffee. It was the best thing he'd had since the apocalypse.

He started the conversation.

"Didn't really turn out to be Disneyland, huh Wesker?" There was no trace of humor in there.

"Chris, please," Jill said. "This is hardly the moment."

He snorted. "Sorry. I was busy not getting eaten by worms whenever that moment _was."_

"Pointing fingers isn't going to help anyone now."

Chris ignored her. He stared at Wesker. Accusing. Pointing a finger for six billion people.

"So you unleashed a lethal viral agent on the world. Eradicated humanity. It's in the headlines all over the globe. How do you feel about it, _Dr_ Wesker? Proud of yourself? Disappointed in mankind? Those the results you expected?"

He leaned forward, unfazed by the weapon Jill pointed at him.

"Feel like a fucking _God_ now?"

Wesker didn't say. He laughed.

* * *

Because they all bought, the first bottle of champagne was on him. The girl from before, the one who was so similar to Jill and at the same time bore so many differences, brought three friends. They all showed more skin than cloth, but that didn't particularly bother Chris. It was a pleasant sight to the eye. It was also way past midnight and what little morale he had taken along on this trip had been drowned in drinks by now.

He barely remembered when he led two of them away, one arm around a waist, the other gliding under a too small and too tight skirt.

* * *

He thought he would be a lot angrier to see Wesker alive. He couldn't have imagined that they'd ever sit at a table, having a civilized conversation without heads rolling.

Perhaps Jill acted as a buffer.

Or perhaps years of solitude quelled the urge for revenge in favor of company. _Real_ human company.

* * *

It was morning. Birds might have chirped, but the droning in his head overpowered most other sounds. Talk about a massive hangover.

Blinking, he searched for the lamp on the nightstand to his right, a little surprised when his hand touched a body instead of furniture.

What was Jill doing there? That was _his_ side of the bed.

Definitely not in the mood to put her in her place he bent over her sleeping form and clicked the switch.

Bright light. Blinking. Curses.

Jill shifted, yawning, turned around to face him.

Chris froze.

A hand touched his back from behind, warm breath on his neck.

"Good morning," someone said.

But there was nothing good about this morning.

* * *

The water was hot. Sizzling his skin.

He stayed inside the shower for twenty minutes.

A lot of things went through his head.

He remembered times before Africa. He remembered Jill. He didn't know what to think of the Jill on the other side of the door.

She was so different from memory. The way she moved, how she acted, the words she chose when she spoke.

This wasn't _his_ Jill.

His Jill had been crushed under Wesker's power. Seven years since he had lost her to his former Captain. Seven years of lies and intrigues and unfathomable wrongdoings.

But he was here now. He was here and he could save his princess from the monster.

If there was anything left to save.

* * *

He was gone within ten minutes, one shoelace still untied.

There was a "Call me!" thrown after him, though he couldn't remember being given a number.

He couldn't remember _anything. _

Most of all not agreeing on a late night party with two no-name girls. God knew if they even were of legal age.

_Shit._

He found his car two blocks away. It didn't look a lot better than the apartment he'd just left. Did he even want to _try_ to remember?

_Yeah, you should, jerk. Stop making this too easy on yourself._

He shooed conscience away. It had been silent in the moment of truth, it could shut up until he figured a way out of this mess.

* * *

She placed a bowl of steaming something in front of him. Chicken. Maggi Instant Soups. It tasted delicious.

"You should stay, Chris."

He choked. Coughed up a mouthful. Looked at her, incredulous.

"I'm not going to share a home with the devil."

Wesker was at the other end of the room. Busying himself with something. No doubt hearing every word they said, despite the hushed tone.

"_You_ should come with me. He can't keep you here. You're not his slave. Come with me."

"Where to?"

He didn't know. "Wherever you want to. We'll go wherever you say. Just away from here."

"And then? Wait until Uroboros gets us? It's safe here. We've been hiding out for years. Without an incident. There's food. Electricity. Clean water. Stay."

He pushed the soup away. His hunger was long not stilled, but the suggestion disgusted him.

"You prefer to stay with _him_ rather than with me?"

"I want to stay alive."

"You didn't answer-"

"He offers survival, Chris. He offers life."

* * *

"Hey. Anybody home?"

Loud, confident, testing the grounds.

The TV answered from the living room. Some reality show. Jill turned on the sofa, got up, and came over.

"Finally! How was your weekend? Catch any fish?"

He chocked. "No, no. We didn't have any luck this time. It was just me and..." Pause. "...and Rob. Rob, yeah. Us and nature."

Jill wrinkled her nose. "And beer."

He laughed, but it wasn't funny. Not at all.

* * *

He was tired. Wesker rejoined them. Brought tea. Brought up the possibility of Chris spending the night in the hatch.

His answer was automated. "No."

"A blizzard is drawing up outside," Wesker said. "You will freeze to death."

"And what do you care?" he spat.

"It's just a pitiful way to die."

Jill said, "Get off your high horse, Chris. Don't be stubborn. There are no heroes and no monsters. Not today."

* * *

It was the day of parting. Jill wished them best of luck for the journey and kissed Chris goodbye, and Claire was in a good enough mood to master the farewell politely.

"So, college, huh?"

Claire stared out of the window, watching the scenery pass by.

"Everything alright with you, Claire?"

She snapped out of her little reverie. "Yeah, sure. I was just thinking."

"About what?"

"Getting a job."

"After college?"

She turned. "No, Chris. Not after. _During._ Or did I miss our name showing up on the latest edition of Forbes Billionaires?"

He gripped the steering wheel tighter. "We have enough money. Don't worry. I'll take care of that."

"You can't pay for my entire college, bro."

"And you leave me to decide what I can and can't do."

"I don't want you pulling overtime because of me-"

"-I'm going to pay this semester in advance, Claire. To end the argument."

"Chris, do you know just how much money that is?"

"Yeah. And I'm giving it to my sister. What's your problem?"

"Where do you even have it from?"

Break. He slowed down the car, looked at her. Smiled that older brother smile, warm and reassuring and bearing that undertone of no-more-questions.

"Claire, I'm a police officer. I'm on the Elite Squad. If they don't pay their best, who would take care of the bad guys then? You just leave the finances to me, baby sister. Ok?"

* * *

He considered, _truly_ considered the offer. His brain screamed _yes_. His heart bled with treachery. How low had he sunken to betray his own ideals?

"I... I can't."

Jill. "Why not?"

"I need to go back to town. I left her there, she's waiting..." His eyes widened. "And the blizzard..."

"There is another survivor?" Wesker. Not hiding the surprise from his voice.

Chris didn't answer.

Jill prodded. "Is anyone else alive out there, Chris?"

A moment's tension, then he resigned. Shoulders sagged. He told himself it was for her sake. That she needed this place more than him. He was doing this for her.

"My sister."

* * *

_Nothing is more difficult, and therefore more precious, than to be able to decide._

_- Napoleon Bonaparte_


	19. Chapter 19

_"Illusion is the first of all pleasures."_

- Oscar Wilde

* * *

"I guess... I'll just spit it out."

"No. That will damage it. Saliva is inhospitable. It must stay pure, Jill."

She pulled on her hair, thought hard. "If you have any ideas, Al, now's the time."

He smiled. "This is your experiment. I would prefer not to interfere."

Chris twitched and his throat gurgled in his unconsciousness. Jill jumped. They waited for him to awaken, to find himself bound to the chair, helpless. It would be a scene to rival the End of the World.

She dreaded the inevitable conversation they were going to have about her affiliation with Wesker. What could she say to excuse herself? How could she defend? Was there even a way to explain what had been going on in the bunker?

She looked at the other man - so smug and cruel and inhumanly beautiful. He refused to meet her eyes now.

She'd betrayed both of them - Chris and Wesker.

She couldn't manage to be honest with just one man.

A life of lies. Just like her father's.

She hated Wesker - he had made her weak, he had dragged her to hell and back, and he had forced her to be the woman she had despised. He had freed her from the constraints of morality... and sometimes she had _liked_ it. So many years spent without having to explain, or feel doubt, or be afraid of anything but _him_. Above all he had done to her, he had liberated her.

She hated Chris - he would try to make her strong again, he would drag her through another hell, and he would force her to be the woman she loved. He would shackle her again with the cuffs of guilt, remorse and repentance... and she feared it. He would ensnare her and drive her far away from everything she'd known for so long. He would ask her to leave Wesker.

"A condom."

He raised an eyebrow.

"A condom will work." She reassured.

He nodded solemnly. "Have you given any thought to what will happen once you fulfill this... destiny?"

"No. That's your job. I want compensation though."

The smile again. "Oh? Making demands now?"

"When it's finished, let me go."

He looked perplexed. "Let you go? The both of you? Just skip away into the sunset?" He laughed then.

"No." She stayed very serious.

"Well, what then?"

"Just me. Let _me_ go."

The struggle to keep his face placid was a losing one.

And she saw Albert Wesker's pain.

* * *

Chris pulled off the ratty shirt.

He was skeletal.

Wesker tried not to look, rummaging through the cabinet under the sink.

The cramped bathroom was steaming up from the running shower.

When Wesker turned back to him, Chris was watching him from over a bony shoulder.

The bump of each vertebra and the hunch of his starved body was devastating to the eye. His pants were kept up by a belt, tightened to its smallest fitting. Bruises. An infected gash on his upper arm. His hair greying.

Wesker could not help himself. He stared openly at the man he had once thought of as his most formidable enemy. Reduced to nothing. Reduced to a walking image of death.

While he and Jill... remained vibrant and young. The virus was kind to him; the p30 had acted like a time capsule for her. 39 for decades. 32 for eternity.

Chris peered into the cabinet. Looked at all of the toiletries.

Dove shampoo (for volume - both of them), Aveeno chamomile body wash (sensitive skin - his), a stock pile of bath puffs (hers). And lotion - lots of it (fragrance-free for him, heavily-scented for her). Nail polish (teal, pink, red, gold). Perfume and cologne.

Chris coughed. Wesker stared.

"You... you two were worried about smelling good... for each other. And I was fighting to stay alive."

And then Chris saw it - a micro-expression.

Shame.

"Take what you want. Anything. The towel is fresh." His eyes on Chris, then averted. "When you're finished, you should consider letting Jill tend to the wound on your arm."

"What's the matter, Wesker?"

He looked turned to the skeleton and its dull blue eyes. "Excuse me?"

"You can't look at me." Chris opened his arms, showing off his hollowed stomach, his sharp ribs, protruding sternum. "Don't like what you see?"

No reply.

"I was lucky though, right? I'm alive. Sort of."

Wesker turned. "She will get you something to eat."

"Why? Do I look hungry?" His voice was neutral. Disturbed. Disturbing.

Wesker ignored the remark. "Take whatever you need."

* * *

She was putting things back on the lab table, picking up the biggest pieces of broken glass, throwing them away. The lab was a war zone.

"Don't come in here unless you have shoes on."

She said this despite knowing glass couldn't hurt him.

"The microscope might be dead. You'll have to look at it." She set it down, sounding tired. He was beside her, leaning over to pick up his journal. His not-so-secret secrets.

"I need time. I have to do this slowly. We move too fast and he'll suspect something."

"How much time?"

"A month. Maybe a few. The less forced it seems, the better."

"I don't see what the problem is, Jill. It should be like riding a bicycle. Once learned, never forgotten or something along that line, correct?"

She turned to him, fierce whispers. "It's not about the sex, Wesker, it's about _him_. Fucking look at him. He's a goddamn corpse!"

He patted the journal and then set it down. "A few months. No later than May... or the deal is off the table."

"Fine. But don't tell him."

"Tell him what?"

She glared, kicking the debris into a pile. _"About... what you give me."_

The P30. A whisper, through clenched teeth. A thing to be hidden.

"It would break him. Don't tell him."

Without thought, without premeditation or scheming, he reached up, his fingers tracing the side of her face as he tucked loose hair behind her ear.

She shivered.

"Oh, I wouldn't dream of telling him. Actually... it's time you came off of it."

There was a sinister quality to his voice now. She'd forgotten how he could sound. It frightened her.

The prospect of losing the P30 frightened her more.

"_Why?"_

He smirked. The bargain had slipped her mind already.

He touched her stomach. "You cannot be a drug addict _and_ the mother of my children, Jill."

Condescending.

The bathroom door opened and they moved apart.

All that was left of their conversation was the horror on her face as she considered her new reality.

He wouldn't be so easily seduced, white rabbit or not.

* * *

She looked at him, her eyes softening. "Do you want a razor, Chris?"

He nodded.

"Will you get him some clothes, please? So he doesn't have to wear those anymore?" she asked Wesker. He sighed.

The men regarded at each other in dark hallway.

"Come here," she said. Gentle. She offered her hand. Chris took it and she led him back to the bathroom.

* * *

Wesker listened.

He was outside the door.

He was outside.

He had always been outside of them, when they were together.

He was never allowed to play.

He listened to Jill talk.

"... ended up here. He figured that they froze in the winter."

Chris's voice as muffled and low. Weak. "They don't freeze. Not all of them. He fucking made them, how could he _not_ know?"

"Well, we know now. Is that...? It looks bad, Chris."

Wesker pieced together that she was referring to the arm wound.

"You don't mind? Me using this?"

The faucet squeaked, water ran. Someone was brushing their teeth. Then spitting. Wesker nearly gagged. She was letting that vagrant use her toothbrush.

"Yeah. Did this a few weeks ago. Right before I ran into you. I jumped out a window. Glass went in. Had to dig it out," he said after the water stopped. The clink of the toothbrush on the side of the metal cup.

"Does it hurt?"

"I can't feel much of anything anymore."

"I'll clean it when we're done."

They were quiet. Wesker heard the clippers buzz. _His_ clippers. In that idiot's hair. His hands were fists.

"What do you want me to do to it?" she asked.

"Get rid of it. All of it. Please."

He listened as she shaved strip after strip from Chris's head. Eventually, she slowed, cleaning up the edges, evening it out.

The clippers clicked off.

He heard some movement, something being placed on the counter. Plastic.

"I don't have any shaving cream," she said. "I just do this in the shower."

"It's fine."

He heard the snipping of scissors. Chris was cutting his beard.

Silence.

"You're shaking," she said.

He sighed. "I know. I'm... I'm really tired." Defeat. Exhaustion.

"Here. You're gonna hurt yourself."

Wesker stepped back from the door, frowned. She was going to do it for him.

A pause and Chris again. "He doesn't shave?"

"He doesn't have any hair."

Another pause. And then a trick question. "... Anywhere?"

Wesker held his breath.

"Uh, I dunno about all that. He doesn't have any on his face."

He exhaled, relieved.

His white rabbit had avoided the snare.

"Head back, Chris."

Wesker listened to the sound of the razor drag on the coarse hair.

The sink ran, the swishing of water.

"So... you're _not_ with him?"

She laughed. It was fake. Wesker knew the difference. It was the laugh she used when she was hiding something.

"No!"

Chris thought on it and said, "Then what's going on here?"

The water swished again.

"Nothing, Chris." A smile in her voice. Wesker could see it.

"No, there's something. I can feel it."

"You need to stop moving. And there's really nothing going on."

"I see the way he looks at you, Jill. I'm not stupid."

Wesker realized he was holding his breath again.

Suddenly, he doubted the plan. He doubted himself.

Was he _that_ compromised? So compromised that a Redfield could see through him?

His face felt flushed, hot.

"Chris, you can't understand."

"Try me."

She turned off the faucet.

"Nothing is the same. There aren't any rules now. You have to stop thinking of things in terms of, you know, good and evil, I guess. Black and white. Everything's gray now. Everything. He doesn't wanna be alone. Neither do I, really. So we just work together."

"He doesn't _work _with anyone, Jill. How could you fucking forget that? How could you forget what he did? Where the fuck are you, Jill? Are you in there?"

Wesker's hand was on the doorknob then.

"Stop. Listen to me. It's over, Chris. This is it. Let it go... let it go or..."

Silence.

The door opened.

Wesker was suddenly standing in the pool of light from the bathroom. He swallowed.

Caught.

He was sitting on the countertop, wiping at his face with a washcloth. He looked up. Truly a skeleton of Chris Redfield now that his head was shorn so closely. His hair lay all over the floor.

Not knowing what else to do, he held the clothes out to Jill.

She grabbed them. "Hey. Get me the broom."

He started to protest. She would _not_ order him around. Particularly in front of this house guest.

But as he opened his mouth to spit out a biting word, one of her hands drifted, almost imperceptibly, to her stomach. He stopped.

The door closed.

And again, Wesker found himself standing in the shadows, waiting for something that would not come.

Standing in Chris's shadow. Waiting.

* * *

_Fall 1997._

He could hear the shitty music before he even got out of the car.

_Jesus Christ. What am I doing here?_

Cars on the lawn. A bonfire out back.

He raised his hand to knock.

Chris threw open the door, holding the choke collar of a pitbull between his legs.

"Hey, it's the boss-man."

The dog barked. A real beast - clipped ears pinned to a massive head. Big teeth. Barrel chest.

Wesker took of his sunglasses, pocketed them and looked down, unaffected.

The dog began to back up, wiggling, yanking, trying to free itself from Chris's hands.

Panicked and powerful, it won.

"Romero!" Chris called after it, watching it take a corner too quickly, haunches hitting the floor, legs scrambling. Terrified.

"What the hell." He scratched his head.

Wesker sighed, handed him the case of beer.

"Thanks." A hand thumped his back. A little too hard. "They're all out back."

Wesker followed him through the old house.

"I'm surprised you came, sir."

"So am I, Redfield, so am I."

* * *

"How did you end up here?" Wesker asked.

Chris took a swig of Corona, patted Jill's thigh. She sat in his lap, nuzzled him, an arm draped over his neck. Wesker appreciated the way she looked in this light - even if she was pouring herself all over _him_.

They sat in lawn chairs, ancient sycamores and oaks all around. The fire cast an orange glow on the backyard. People Wesker didn't know danced, yelled, partied. Drank. Ate. The smell of meat on a grill. Charcoal and wood and cold fall air.

"_How?"_ Chris laughed. "You mean, what am _I _doing in this really nice neighborhood?"

Wesker smiled, almost shyly, looked down, shoved his hands in the front of his windbreaker.

"That hurts, Captain. Right here." Chris joked, touched a hand to his chest. "Actually, I'm renting. My lease runs out in a few weeks. I wanna get those assholes riled up one last time." He nodded toward the house that was catty-corner, saying the word _assholes_ loudly.

"Have you found another rental then?"

The lovers stared at each other, Jill wrapping both arms around Chris's neck. Smitten.

Disgusting.

"I think... I'm gonna move in with Jilly-bean." Chris pulled her closer. Noses touching.

Wesker looked away.

He wished he liked to drink.

* * *

He washed his hands. He didn't like the smell of Chris's soap. He wrinkled his nose. Almond and cherry.

_Bleh._

He used the hand towel to dry them.

And then he saw it.

The blue toothbrush.

Chris's blue toothbrush.

* * *

He gave the toilet bowl a solid scrubbing with that blue toothbrush.

A knock at the door.

"Hey man, hurry up!" Muffled.

Wesker ignored him.

He placed it back in the cup on the counter.

Adjusted it. Then adjusted it again.

There it was. At the exact angle he'd found it.

_Perfect._

_

* * *

_

Around eleven a rough-looking group showed up.

Chris walked out to the side yard to talk with them.

Wesker watched them shake hands, laugh, bump shoulders. Familiar. Friendly.

Too rough a group for an officer of the law to be congenial with.

He wanted to hear. He scrutinized how Chris was standing, moving. It was all suspicious. Out of place. Almost as out of place as getting shot a month before...

The music was loud. R&B. Some song about a nasty grind.

"Want anything while I'm up?"

She was standing right in front of him. He hadn't noticed.

They looked at each other, his gaze angling up from the chair.

"No, thank you."

"You think it's a mistake, sir?" The words tumbled out, almost interrupted him. He knew it had bothered her (his reaction) and she'd been waiting all night to ask.

He sat back. "Indeed. A very _large_ mistake, Ms. Valentine. There are rules against it, you know. You could jeopardize your career."

"Will you fire us?" She was afraid. And buzzed. And illogical.

He couldn't really "fire" them. Theirs was a lateral relationship. Frowned upon but not forbidden.

"Well, no, I... what I'm saying is... I know when he was... you were there and..." She grimaced, recalling the shooting. He started over. "You should think very hard."

Heart-to-hearts were not his strong point.

He imagined he must have sounded like her father.

She stared at the ground. Insecure.

He reached out, touched her hands, stopping the fingers that picked at the label on her beer. She looked into his eyes.

He tried to speak. His mouth was too dry.

"Are we gonna do this, or what, _motherfuckers_?"

Chris broke the spell.

He had finished his conversation with the questionable visitors and was at the backdoor of the house, yelling.

"What are Chris and his motherfuckers going to do?"

Jill smiled.

"Poker. You play?"

* * *

Chris held the mug in his hands. Sipped every so often. Chicken noodle soup steam rising up in front of his face.

Wesker watched him. Jill had both elbows on the table, hands folded under her chin.

They were silent, except for Chris's swallowing and the creaking of Wesker's chair as he leaned back and rocked.

"You ought to stay here tonight." Wesker's voice was calm, quiet.

Chris coughed and scowled, choking. "You're fucking crazy. No. No way."

Jill touched his shoulder and he wrenched away, turning the dirty look on her. She lowered her hand to her lap. "Chris, think about-"

"No! Not with him! He killed them all! He's the fucking antichrist, Jill!"

"A blizzard is drawing up outside. You will freeze to death. Think rationally. For once." Wesker seemed to sigh.

Chris looked at them both. So ethereal and healthy. Blond and clean and satisfied.

They had the same expressions now.

They moved the same way.

They seemed safe - even the _monster_.

The lab was warm. Comfortable. Spacious.

She deserved that. Claire deserved all of that.

He thought of her, in the cold. Alone.

"I... I can't."

"Why not?"

"I need to go back to town. I left her there, she's waiting... And the blizzard..."

Wesker leaned forward. "There is another survivor?"

"Is anyone else alive out there, Chris?" Jill.

Chris looked at the soup. Sunken eyes.

"My sister."

* * *

"How did she live?" Wesker drove over the fresh snow. It fell around them. "Is she healthy?"

Jill frowned. He was excited. Pleased.

More pleased than he'd been in years.

He knew the shallow, petty side of her ached at him finding pleasure somewhere else when he found no pleasure in her.

Just as he ached. Every day.

Chris shook his head, stared out the backseat window. He wasn't with them. His mind was somewhere else.

"She was living here? In Oregon?" Jill asked.

"Yeah."

"Why here?"

"Leon Kennedy." Wesker cut in.

Chris was snapped out of his daydream. "How did you know?"

"I monitored him. After the plagas incident."

Chris's eyes narrowed. Wesker glanced at him in the mirror.

"But I did not know about _her_. Before you jump to that conclusion."

They were quiet again.

Jill reached for the controls. Heat.

Wesker went to block her.

"You're out numbered now. Two bodies to warm."

He smiled, a sarcastic thing that tugged at the corner of his mouth. She was uneasy. Cranky. She had been since the mention of Chris's beloved sister.

"Yes, Jill." The smile was broad. "Soon there will be three bodies to warm..."

_And eventually... who knows how many..._

She looked out the window.

He enjoyed the idea of two rabbits.

Yes. Two rabbits would do.

* * *

They followed him over the snow bank on foot. The car left behind on what had been a road.

A little farmhouse in the distance. Half a mile. Wind howled. The last pink light of the Oregon dusk. A blood-red sun setting. Swirling gusts of white. Snow picked up and whipped around them.

Chris turned, the hood of his worn-out parka pulled up. He pointed and yelled over the weather.

"She's there."

* * *

As they trudged on, a million thoughts came to him.

_She's even younger than Jill._

_More viable eggs._

_She has more time._

_More time to carry._

_Safer pregnancies._

_Risk of infection? _

_Low._

_She couldn't be stronger than Jill._

_But she is fit, surely._

_The last time - Antarctica._

_She was somewhat attractive._

_Never had a redhead. _

_Never wanted a redhead._

_Strawberry-blond? Our progeny?_

_But she looked like Chris._

_It will feel wrong._

_It will feel right..._

"What are you thinking?" Jill stepped in the holes he left. Chris moved out in front of them, head down, pushing through the wind and snow.

"Nothing. Be careful here. Ice."

* * *

_July 24, 1998._

"Get out. Everyone. Except _you_."

He pointed to her. She was pulling on whatever she could in a hurry.

Female officers scattered, grabbing purses, yanking on clothes, glaring at the Captain. A shower stall was left running, towels on the floor, belongings on the benches.

"Out! Move! You heard me!"

The locker room cleared and Jill stood, zipping up the cargo pants, dragging on the holster, looking at him. Her breasts were clearly defined in the thin white bra, her wet hair tucked behind an ear, no make-up, a single silver chain around her neck. Chris's dogtags noticeably absent.

He wanted to remember her _just_ like that: armed to the teeth and nearly half-naked.

She was beautiful.

She was also furious.

She glared... but stood, respecting his authority. He reveled in her obedience.

"This is really, really inappropriate, _sir._"

He leaned on the lockers, drawing up a knee, hands on hips. Sunglasses blocking, deflecting.

"Ms. Valentine, it has come to my attention that you and the other officer have terminated your... relationship."

Jill's arms dropped her sides but she held his gaze.

"In light of this, I will give you the option to stay behind tonight. To circumvent any issues that might arise between the two of you."

She looked shocked. "I've been researching... I've been working on this with you for a month."

"I understand. But you can sit this out. No consequences. Should you and the other officer have any altercations in the field, it could be detrimental to the entire team."

She shook her head, confused. "I would never... we're not... you know I wouldn't do-"

"What I'm saying, Valentine, is that we don't need you tonight. You can leave. Report back tomorrow."

And then the look he'd wanted to avoid - hurt.

"But..."

"Take the night."

"Sir-

"_Jill_. Take the night off. That's an order."

He turned to leave. The slam of a locker stopped him.

"Sir!"

He looked at her, one eye, over the shoulder.

"I respectfully decline!"

She was shaking with rage.

"This is my life, sir. If you want to hold that shit over my head - that mistake I made, you should fucking fire me. I am just-_"_ The outburst shocked even her. She controlled her tone then. "I'm just as good as any of the men on your team. Sir."

Wesker had never heard her swear. He turned to her.

"Do what you want, Valentine. But one misstep, _one mistake_, and you're relocating to another precinct."

* * *

His stomach flipped as he left the women's locker room.

He had tried. He had tried as hard as he could.

But she was stubborn.

There was nothing he could do now. She would take the Arkley Mansion with them.

What good was left of him collapsed under the weight of his guilt.

* * *

"Claire?"

Snow blew in the little farm house behind them.

"Claire? Hey! Come out! I found... you won't believe this!"

Nothing but the silence of the old farm house. Chris whipped around, glaring.

"It's _you_," he sneered. "She probably saw you coming and hid."

Wesker snorted, upper lip curled.

"He won't hurt you, Claire," Jill added for good measure. "I promise."

* * *

Wesker paced slowly in the entryway. He examined the photographs there on the wall. Most of the farm through the years, some of animals: a blue-ribbon sow, a girl hugging a quarter horse.

One picture caught him over and over. A wedding. 1980's. Bride with puffy sleeves, teased hair. The groom had a rat-tail. Smiling like idiots.

Such a simple, happy life.

Extinguished.

He wondered if it hurt much, when these people were devoured.

It was the first time he'd ever thought about it.

He allowed himself that one indulgence... and stopped.

No more wondering.

He stared at the wedding photo.

He was hollow.

And then he was not.

* * *

"I dunno where she could have gone. Look at the fucking weather. Oh my God. I should never... I left her."

Chris was having a breakdown in living room, head in hands. Jill was next to him on the couch, rubbing his back.

"I'm sure she's fine. You guys made it this far, right? It's only been five days..."

Sounds not unlike sobbing.

Wesker appeared. He could not make himself look at the other man, whose starved shoulders shook with each haggard breath. He made eye contact with Jill instead, gestured as if he was looking at a watch.

She ran her hand over his bare scalp and leaned in close. "Chris, we have to go soon. It's getting dark. It'll be risky."

It was risky always, with the monsters lurking, but riskier still past dusk.

"We can't! I have to wait! I can't leave her!"

She looked at Wesker, desperate.

"We will return tomorrow. She'll be back then. You'll see." He didn't like comforting the Redfield, he truly didn't. It stung his mouth, even after it was out. Bile.

Chris winced then, wept silently. It was a cold day in hell when Albert Wesker offered a kind word.

For minute-centuries, the only sound in the room was Chris's sadness. It was unbearable.

"Fine. We'll stay here for the night. If I hear anything, see anything I don't like, we leave."

Jill looked at him. A strange look. An evaluating look.

He walked away.

Perhaps she was seeing him for the first time.

* * *

He found Chris's room late that night, while they slept on the couch, wind howling outside, light long gone.

He went through everything, as he was prone to do. It could have been blamed on the scientist in him - the need to understand, memorize, study.

_He_ knew it was because of Scorpio, living in three of his Houses.

Under the clothes in the duffle bag, he found a letter.

Careful fingers turned it over in the glow of the moon.

The name "Chris". Neat block letters.

Gentle fingers opened, pulled out, unfolded.

He read. Then re-read. Read a third time, to be sure.

He put the letter back in its envelope.

Claire Redfield had killed herself.

Years ago.

* * *

Jill was curled up on one end of the couch.

He stood next to her. Waited.

She stirred, and then opened her eyes.

She knew when he was near, even in sleep.

He put a finger to his own lips.

_Shhhh._

She followed him to the back bedroom.

She covered her mouth with her hand when she read it.

* * *

"What are you doing?"

They looked at him in the pale light of the moon.

They weren't even ashamed, or surprised, or sorry for being caught.

All they had for him _pity_.

Even the monster pitied him.

"What are you doing in here?" His voice was louder.

The letter was in her hand. _Her_ letter was in Jill's hand.

The last thing Claire had ever touched...

He rushed, grabbed it, held it to his fragile chest.

His eyes were full. The pain of betrayal.

"Fuck you. Both of you."

She reached for him, he pushed her away. Wesker stepped between them.

"Calm down, Chris."

"No. Fuck you. You have no idea... What I did. To live. You don't even know."

"Why don't you give me the letter, hmm? You don't need it anymore." Deceptive, smooth Wesker. "It can only harm you now."

Chris backed away. "No. No, it's all I have. You can't have it."

* * *

"Don't hurt him, Al."

She hovered nervously as he choked Chris out. The thrashing stopped. He slept.

Wesker lifted the skeleton-man over a shoulder.

Jill cleared her throat, looked around the room, hands on hips. "Should I get his stuff?"

Filthy clothes strewn on the bed. Worn out tennis shoes in the corner. A few guns lined up on the dresser.

All that belonged to the sickly Redfield. All that was left.

"Anything he might miss. Leave the rest. And be quick."

He paused when he reached the doorway, ducking and turning to her.

"Destroy the letter."

There it was again - the evaluating look.

She seemed to want to say something she might regret, something that might warm him, something he could secretly hold on to, but all she managed was, "Okay."

He couldn't blame her.

* * *

_"He who fights with monsters must take care lest he thereby become a monster."_

- Friedrich Nietzche


	20. Chapter 20

Hey - we're back.

Thanks for sticking around.

Love,

slt

* * *

_Seems the road less traveled / Show's happiness unraveled / And you gotta take a little dirt / To keep what you love_

_- Tonic_

* * *

He shook out his arm. Cracked his neck.

She watched the needle go so deep she could feel it in her own arm.

Beautiful blue vein.

There was the tell-tale rush of blood droplets in the syringe, the diffusion, wisps of red in the viral cocktail.

She could almost hear him sigh with relief.

She sipped her coffee and watched his face change - the pinched and pale eyebrows loosening, the pleasure that made the corner of his mouth twitch, those long blond lashes fluttering in his pseudo-ecstasy.

Jill knew the feeling.

He stopped plunging, his eyes on hers.

"What?" He snarled so lovely.

"Nothing, _dear_." So did she.

He finished off the dose slowly, savoring the imagined high like the junkie he was.

She was terrified.

There was no change.

_He couldn't know, could he?_ Could he smell what she'd done?

_No. Even he isn't that astute._ The Serpent spoke for the first time in a long while. _You're a very bad girl._ It laughed.

She'd been diluting Wesker's drug of choice for months.

He was shooting up nearly straight saline now.

And yet he was _still_ a god.

* * *

"I want out."

He was awake in the backseat.

Jill didn't answer. She looked at Wesker. He was rubbing his temple. The snow fell; a blanket on the road.

"Did you hear me? Let me out."

"No." Wesker was final.

"I didn't _ask_, cocksucker. Stop the car."

"Chris-" She warned gently.

"What, Jill? You want me to go back to your tomb? Your hidey-hole? _You fucking cowards._"

Wesker sighed. He could imagine his patience with Chris Redfield wearing thin quickly.

"Well, I'm not _you_, Jill. I'll take my chances with Claire. I'm not going to sit around in _hell_, eating the good captain's lies and mind-fuckery morning, noon and night. Where's Claire?"

Jill paused, at a loss. She looked to Wesker again.

"Where the fuck is she?" He demanded loudly. His hand thumped the backseat for emphasis.

Jill saw Wesker snap.

"She's dead, Chris." He smiled, watching the man's face in the rearview mirror. "Dead."

"Jesus Christ," Jill whispered. _"Stop."_

"She took her own life. Do you remember how, Chris? Was it perhaps a gun? Her brains sprayed out on the clean, white walls of her apartment courtesy of the beretta you bought for her?"

"Wesker!" She shouted. He ignored her and went on, sending slitted-eye glances in the mirror as he ranted.

"Oh yes, look at you. You remember. Do you remember your other partner, Chris? You let her die too. They both died with your name on their lips." He waited and then cruelly added: _"Christopher! Save us!"_

"What's wrong with you? Stop it!" Her fingers dug into his arm. He carried on over her plea, relishing in Chris's moans.

"You _failed._ You... are... _useless_." Each word a stab.

Chris wailed and hit himself, pounding his own head with his fists. Jill turned in her seat, grabbing at him, begging him.

Wesker smiled through it, and drove while the snow fell.

He felt as if he was coming out of hibernation. And it was glorious.

* * *

"He won't eat."

Wesker didn't even look up.

She stared at him. Waited a beat. Pestered again.

"Al."

Finally, he relented. He set down the reading glasses (those had taken some coaxing), folded his hands patiently. "Yes, Jill. He won't eat. And?"

"Do something."

"You know very well that if I 'do something', your old flame and I will never kiss and make up." There was the threat of violence in his voice.

"Do something." She repeated.

He stood, more than enough permission granted.

He sauntered past her in the dark hallway.

She almost regretted giving him the pleasure.

But Chris left her no choice. He'd been lying in bed for three days since the discovery of Claire's status. He had said he wanted to die.

She couldn't let him die. No matter the cost.

He would hate her intensely for a while, she knew that much.

But he did in fact eat.

He ate quite a bit as Albert Wesker's hand wrapped around his neck and promised a fate worse than self-starvation.

* * *

She looked at the bruises on his throat, under his jaw, where the guiding hand of god had helped him remember how to eat, how to live.

She recalled how Wesker had done the same to her, in a time long past.

"Fuck off, Jill."

That was the 'intense hate' part talking.

"Oh stop. You'll thank me some day."

She tilted his chin up with her fingers, and asked kindly, "Want me to make this easier for you? I can do that, Chris."

She eased her knee between his thighs, spreading them. Her hand trailed down.

He caught her wrist. _"I said, Fuck off, Jill."_

Too soon.

She backed away.

At the door, she said, "When you're ready. I missed you. I miss you."

She wondered how much of Wesker Chris could hear when she spoke.

* * *

The sound of the bath running woke her.

The TV was on, droning quietly. Evening news.

He came from the bathroom, rolling up the sleeves of his dress shirt.

"What are you doing?"

He ignored the question and began to untie her. His hands weren't gentle as he worked on her left wrist.

Two days before, he'd restrained her, spread-eagle, on the hotel bed using a torn sheet. It made her think of The Exorcist.

The stitching he'd done on the slashes burned with each tug of the tie. She winced.

"What are you doing?"

He worked on her ankles next, leaving one arm still bound. He had imagined her smashing the bedside lamp over his skull and thought better of it.

Finally, he unwound her right hand.

He pulled her up to sit. The bed was crusty with her blood and he saw her grow pale.

"I need the p30. I need it. I can't... give it to me." She was wheezing, near faint.

"I gave it to you twenty minutes ago. You don't remember?" He lifted one of her arms over his shoulders, slipped his hand under her knees. "You'll feel better soon. Just be quiet."

In truth, he hadn't given her anything.

* * *

Her head lulled against his chest while he carried her to the bathroom.

He felt her fingers cling to his shirt weakly.

He hated himself for noticing.

* * *

She spat and hissed while he held her wrists under the faucet.

The water ran pink with her blood as it washed away.

She called him every name in the book and then started cursing his mother.

Wesker said nothing as he rinsed her wounds.

* * *

"Take it all off and get in the tub."

"No." Her inner fight was returning.

"Yes."

"No." More force.

_"Yes."_

With his hand over her mouth, he took her clothes off for her.

* * *

"Can you at least leave me alone to do this?"

The water was only luke warm. Her skin goosebumped. She hugged her knees to her chest, terribly aware of her nakedness.

"No, Jill." He sounded so certain she'd try to kill herself again.

She was shaky as she used the washcloth. Blood flaked off her skin, mixed with the soap and frothed up a rose color. Her arms ached with the exertion. She became frustrated when she couldn't close her hands all the way, the muscles cut.

Washing her hair was hell. It took every ounce of strength.

She watched him out of the corner of her eye.

He stood against the counter, his dead stare on the TV in the next room.

Not once had he looked at her while she was this vulnerable.

She didn't know if it was chivalry or disgust.

* * *

"Don't. Just wait." He was gruff. She'd tried to stand on her own.

Dizziness hit her and she slipped back into the tub, barely catching herself before a hard landing. She began weeping shortly after that.

"Stop, Jill." He approached her, towel open, ready to pick her up again.

"Let me die!"

"Quiet."

"You're gonna kill me anyway! Just like her! You fucking murdered her!"

He could accept name-calling. He could accept tears.

He would not allow screaming, particularly over Excella.

His hand wrapped nearly all the way around her throat. So slender and fragile under his power. She choked, a sad sound. She didn't struggle.

"Is this what you want? Hmm? To die?"

He had cut off her breath, yet she was still. She didn't even bring her hands up to claw at him as she had in the past. She closed her eyes.

"Fight!" He shook her. She squeezed her eyes shut tighter, choked again. "What would _he_ think of you? _Live!_"

Just as she was about to go under, about to pass out, something... someone pulled her from the depths of her watery hell. She gasped and began to pound at his arm.

He released her throat and yanked her from the tub, lifted her to her feet. She was crushed against him momentarily, naked and hurting, but alive.

He shoved her away and left the bathroom. She gagged and held onto the shower curtain.

He appeared back at the doorway. He pointed at her. Uncharacteristically, he stumbled over his words and his voice trembled.

"Don't you _ever_... Don't you _dare_. You will not take that away from me! Never!"

It wasn't until she was drying herself off that she realized he was talking about her life.

* * *

She had never thought him capable of kneeling.

But there he was, in a hotel room in Middle-of-Nowhere, U.S., kneeling in front of her as she sat on the edge of a bed.

He was different now. Fingers held the gauze against her wrist, wrapped the medical tape around, slow and careful. Her eyes were tired. She let them close every so often. When she would open them, she saw him, as serious and silent as before.

He finished with her arms, the pads of his thumbs rubbing the middle of her palms, turning her wrists over so he wouldn't have to be reminded.

She closed her eyes again, felt his fingertip under her chin. She was obedient in her exhaustion and she let her head fall back. He guided her face first to the left and then the right, looking for the damage he'd done, the new bruises he'd made.

* * *

Jill laid back on the clean sheets. She spread her feet, her hands reaching to the headboard. She went willingly.

He was gentle this time as he tied her down. A lingering touch on her ankle, feeling the delicate bones. He leaned over her, closer than before, when he worked on her wrists. She knew his heat, could smell his skin.

He bound her with the tenderness of a lover.

She watched his every move.

And she knew he was ashamed.

* * *

In the dark, she listened.

His breathing hadn't changed. He was not asleep.

It had been two hours since he'd stretched out on the other bed.

In the red glow of the alarm clock, she could make out his body - lying on his stomach, arms folded under the cheap pillow, one knee pulled up to the side.

His eyes were open and fiery. He was studying her.

"Excella deserved to die," he said. His voice dry and muffled.

She stared back, unafraid for the first time in years.

"I removed it because it reminded me of her. The plate. I could always smell her - how pathetic she was, her suffocating desperation. She was a vile animal. Her lust so incestuously wrapped up in her ambition." His words were acid.

Her fingers wound around the bindings. "She loved you though."

"Excella could never _love_." He bit back. "Never. She was in heat and she wanted fame. Don't be naive."

Jill knew better than to push. She let the issue go and waited for him to continue.

"I thought to spare her for some time, before you. She served a purpose. My original intent was to kill her, once she'd satisfied her role. I postponed her death though, time and time again."

Jill shifted, adjusting.

"But her actions were inexcusable. She forced my hand."

She let him rationalize and talk his way out.

"I could not trust her. And your life... was more valuable, at the time. You proved a bigger asset. You would never have been safe with her."

Silence.

"I made a decision, Jill. Excella had to die."

Her silhouette was still.

"_Speak_, Jill. Say it."

She breathed deeply and then whispered, "It's okay, Wesker. You're right. It's okay."

He accepted that and turned away from her.

He _needed_ that and fell asleep.

* * *

His steps were uneven, the stiffness of four days spent lying down. He leant on the wall for support.

Jill was sprawled on the beat-up couch, her face hidden by the book until she heard him. She peered over the pages in time to see Chris sit down at the lab table.

Wesker finished a sentence in his journal and then closed it.

"Doing the Undead Shuffle now, Redfield?"

"Fuck. You." The frustration cracked with his voice.

Jill couldn't help herself. She smiled.

It was good to see him move, good to see him fight.

Chris ran both hands over his shaved head and rubbed vigorously, trying to clear away whatever haunted him. "I could really use some coffee."

"Down the hall." She motioned at the kitchenette.

He hobbled out of the lab.

Wesker was watching her watch Chris. She shrugged and her attention went back to the novel.

"Welcome back, Chrissss..." Wesker mumbled as he opened the journal again.

"You should apologize to him, Doctor Lecter." She spoke into the book.

"Oh yes. I'll just put that at the top of my list of things to do." He pushed the reading glasses up the bridge of his nose.

"Classy..." She turned the page, shaking her head.

And just like that, they were alright.

As alright as The New Jill Valentine, The Strange(r) Albert Wesker and The Old Chris Redfield could be.

* * *

"Sit up." The voice was breathless.

Jill pulled herself right on the little bed. The plate throbbed, hot and alive on her body. She was so tired. Why couldn't they just leave her alone?

Her eyes were cast down in submission, focused on Excella's heels. Strappy little peep-toe things that brought her to a towering height - nearly eye-level with him. Jill's own feet ached watching her walk. She wondered what other things Excella did to keep a man like Wesker happy.

_Happy_ being a relative term.

To Jill's surprise, she sat down next to her, set something on the cot. She stared straight ahead, her heart thundering under the metal. Excella looked at her in the gloomy light.

"Take down your hair."

Obediently, Jill pulled out the ponytail.

Excella hesitated but then Jill felt her hand, running through her hair, pushing it over her shoulder, tucking it behind her ear. Gentle.

Something was terribly wrong.

They finally looked at each other.

Excella had been crying.

Jill had not realized how young she was - barely out of her teens. Her heart broke then; Excella was a child.

"You even look like him." She sniffled, rubbed a crumpled up Kleenex under her nose. She straightened, suddenly prideful again. "I invented that. The device."

The chest piece.

"I never... I did not know it would end up on a woman... for this. I made it for people who... I do not know the word. _Malata terminali._ Do you know?"

Jill shook her head, recognizing only the word "terminal".

"I was going to be something. I was going to cure cancer. I used to be someone."

A tear fell down her cheek. She brushed it away.

"He hates me, you know. He hates my..." She gestured with her hand, looking for the word. _"Sentimenti."_

Jill listened and watched her, silenced by the p30. She understood though. Sentiment. Emotion.

"Excuse me. I forget my English when I'm like this." She folded her hands in her lap, perfectly manicured nails, lovely long fingers. She was elegant even when she wept.

"I cannot please him anymore. He is gone but he sleeps next to me. He has taken _la mia anima con lui_. He has left nothing for me. Do you understand? _Egli era il sole._"

Jill nodded.

"It's you he wants."

Jill shook her head vehemently.

"Oh yes, he would choose you as his queen." Excella smiled then, defeated. She looked at her lap. _"Il piccolo procione."_

The p30 held her down, caged her thoughts so that she could not speak them. She wanted to tell Excella to kill him, to end this madness, that it wasn't too late, that they could escape together.

But she was mute, only able to express through the desperation in her eyes.

"He has ruined me. There is nothing with without him now."

And then Jill saw it - the gun. She inhaled sharply, wanting to scream. Excella studied her, then turned the gun over in her hands.

Jill imagined the Italian committing suicide, right there, on the cot, in the cell. She shook her head again, violently, eyes wide.

Excella handed the gun over. "Take it."

Jill obeyed, trembling.

_"Put it to your head."_

There was a moment of shock and then a realization of what Excella intended to be done. Not her own suicide, but Jill's.

Powerless to resist, Jill brought the weapon to her temple. She was breathing erratically, unblinking.

"I would do anything for him. He will love me again when you're gone."

Jill looked up, eyes blurring. She pulled back the hammer of the gun. She could hear his voice.

_Remember, thumb open, not curled. How long will it take to break you of that?_

"You understand? You see why? It is better this way for both of us. You do not want to live... as an animal, as his pet, do you? He will make you what he has made me."

Her bottom lip quivered, gaze moved to Excella, pleading. She did not want to die - not here, not in this place, not while she still carried hope.

"I'm not a bad person!" Excella cried, grappling with what Wesker had not destroyed of her conscience. _"È lui - ha fatto questo a me!"_

She tried to compose herself, wiped furiously at her tears. She looked at Jill, her will hardening again.

Perhaps he _had_ ruined her completely.

_"Andare con Dio, pulcettina."_

"Stop." His voice, coming through the darkness, overrode Excella's orders.

Jill had never been so grateful.

He was in the doorway. A savior. A god.

"At ease."

She slumped, dropping the gun. It clattered to the floor. Excella stood, terrified.

"_Lei mi avrebbe ucciso!_ I had to, Albert! She had the gun hidden. I had no choice!"

"You can leave, Excella."

"Albert-"

"Now." He was calm.

Jill knew that his composure wouldn't last. The strange pity returned to her.

He would wait. He might wait quite a while. And when Excella thought herself safe, he would strike. It was his nature.

Jill knew that part of him well because she too could temper wrath and exact revenge when the time was right.

_Years and years later... when the time is right..._

Excella glanced back before walking out, the clicking of her stilettos echoing all the way down the corridor.

Wesker picked up the gun, his eyes lingering on Jill for a few unsettling seconds.

He left without saying another word.

* * *

Half a year later, as the BSAA closed in, he would find a final use for Excella.

Ironically, it was she who became the insect.

_Worm mostro._

Perhaps not so ironic at all.

* * *

Chris just watched for the first days he was up.

Wesker and Jill did everything together - perfectly synchronized.

Every morning, they woke at the same time.

Wesker always got the shower first. They both took the exact same amount of time every day - 17 minutes for him, 16 minutes for her.

Wesker made the coffee.

_Controlling fuck_, Chris thought._ He even decides how much creamer she gets._

How could he know that, in truth, this was part of their intimacy? Part of Wesker's penance?

They went up to the surface at exactly 9 am, every day.

They didn't speak, just walked side by side. Another curiosity - someone being equal enough to walk beside Wesker.

They adjusted the solar panels a half a mile from the hatch to match the path of that day's sun or non-sun.

They would split and examine the area for any change - both of them silent, predatory, always within each other's sight as they crept through the dead forest.

In the lab, the intensity of their likeness increased.

They rarely spoke to each other.

Their actions talked enough for them.

On Mondays, they would go through the lab, dusting and polishing every item. It was a long process. They worked in tandem, moving at exactly the same speed, with the same efficiency.

On Tuesdays, they analyzed their energy usage; highlighting spreadsheets of the previous week's management, comparing and notating. They would point and nod and adjust.

On Wednesdays, Jill made a list of provisions needed. They took it to town. Chris couldn't help but notice how Wesker hovered over her... more so that she didn't mind.

The rest of the week went on in much the same manner.

There was a system and he was clearly a loose cog in their well-oiled machine, having to always get out of someone's way, or get up because whatever he was sitting on needed cleaning, or eating more processed sugar that they would have to account for in the next trip to town.

Their mouths forming the same, unreadable frown.

* * *

_Someplace seaside, Massachusetts._

Hunkered down for a week, after The End, feeling safe enough to regain a bit of normalcy.

They ran and ran; two near-silent forms on the cracked and abandoned roads.

"You tire," he said. His breathing was even though they'd gone nearly eleven miles without any break.

She kept jogging in place. "No. No. I feel good. Let's go."

He watched her cleavage rise and fall, the holes of the chest plate long since scabbed over and scarred.

"Jill, you should rest." The voice of reason.

"This is the only time I get out of my cage, master. Come on." The voice of sarcasm.

"You're weak. You must rest." He willed her into pitifulness. "That's an order."

She frowned. "Fine. Whatever you say." She turned on her Nike-d heels and started back to the hovel where they stayed. Her white ponytail wagged with each bouncy, furious step.

He watched her go.

He didn't notice her ass, didn't notice the way the back of her thighs glistened in the dying sunlight, didn't notice the purposeful sway of her hips.

He _did_ notice she could still keep an excellent pace for miles and miles, could spar for hours without exhaustion when they had the room.

He _did_ notice that she now needed the injections to act normal.

And he noticed most of all that she continued to obey him as she had under the influence.

Concerned about her growing dependence and the ability to recreate the poison in a rudimentary lab, he'd ceased administering the p30 altogether; placebo doses had been holding her over.

And yet she _still_ obeyed.

_What a mysterious and powerful thing the mind is,_ he thought.

* * *

_"Wicked men obey out of fear; good men, out of love."_

_- Aristotle_


	21. Chapter 21

**_"Ever has it been that love knows not its own depth until the hour of separation."_**

**_ - Kahlil Gibran_**

* * *

He sat down next to her, wincing.

"You alright?"

He nodded. "Just getting old..."

The snow was falling steadily. The downed tree they perched on was icy and their breath hung in the air like clouds.

"So many years, Jill." He shook his head while she sighed. Her hands wormed into the pockets of her sweat shirt.

"I know."

"How many times did you try to escape?"

She stared at her feet. "I tried to, uh..." She made imaginary slashes up her arms as it hurt too much to speak the words, the words making it more real than she could deal with. "Once."

He raised his eyebrows. "You never just made a run for it or anything?"

She kicked at the snow, her legs swinging like a child's. He knew the answer was disappointing and shameful.

"It's wrong, Jill. I don't care what he's done or what he's told you. You're a hostage."

She sighed again. "Well, it's the past, right?"

"No. No, it's not the past. You're still here, in that goddamn hole. With that blond piece of shit."

She held up a hand to stop him. "I can't do this, Chris. Not now."

"When then? When do you want to do 'this'? It's not getting any prettier, Jill. Every day that ticks by, with you hiding out, waiting for-"

"I can't! Just stop!" She stood. "I won't!"

_I won't leave him. I won't live without him._

"Okay," he said, softly. "Okay. We'll talk about something else."

"I'm not like you." She cut in. "You can't keep thinking that I'm _you_. I'm not."

Chris looked at her. He looked through her. "What do you mean?"

"Maybe I'm... I'm just not a hero."

He leaned away from her, as if she'd slapped him. "Jill. Wha- of course you are. I mean... what..." The words wouldn't come, his world jolted to a standstill.

"No. I'm not. Really." She paused, letting the weight sink in for both Chris and herself. "I wanted to live more than I wanted to be a hero."

"Jill-"

"Seriously. Listen to me. I'm not a hero."

He was broken-hearted, his breath shallow. "But what about Raccoon? Or Spencer?"

She looked into his eyes. "I _was_, I guess, when I was your sidekick. I'm not anymore though."

"Now you're _his_ fucking sidekick." His tone was derisive and hurtful.

"No."

"Then be a hero again. Fuck this place. It smells like death in there, Jill. Let's go. Let's leave him to rot."

She shook her head. "No."

He made a hopeless sound; it gurgled out from the back of his throat. A death rattle for Jill Valentine.

He was up, pacing briefly. She watched. He turned on her.

"All that goddamn time. I wasted so much fucking time on you."

She backed up at the sting of his tone.

He started to walk and stopped. "It would hurt so much less if you would have just died that night."

* * *

The first time he left the room, he thought there was going to be... something... more than indifference.

She was reading her book. He was writing in his journal.

It was so surreal, he wondered if he was still dreaming.

Had these people forgotten what world they lived in?

* * *

In the kitchenette, a hallway apart from the living room, Chris stood, waiting for the coffee to brew.

He looked up and around. He listened to the drip of the Cuisinart.

This place was really no more than a grave with a pretty tombstone inscription to lure in all those desperate wanderers.

_Come on down to Eden, y'all, cause we got false hopes aplenty and hot coffee to swallow down the good news. Just don't forget... your soul's gotta be dead to enter!_

* * *

The machine beeped. Done.

He took the mug and risked a glance into the other room, where time seemed to stand still. He wrote and she read. No change.

It made no sense to him as to why they had insisted on keeping him here, when none of them seemed interested in his presence. He was a stray dog they picked up on the street, washed and brushed, but still a mutt.

"It's 'cause they're afraid of you," came a voice from his right and as he looked to define its origin, Claire stepped from the shadows. Good old Claire. Claire-Bear. Lil' Sis. The only person in the world left he could trust.

She wore one of Jill's old outfits – he wondered how it had survived all these years. The black tank top hugged her frame, accompanied by a short jeans skirt and knee-high brown boots. It was a warped memory of the past of all the things he'd lost (Jill) and those he still had, but was unable to reach (Claire).

"They're afraid of you." Claire explained. "They're fucking terrified and that's why they don't let you go. You're the key, to that damned lock they've been picking for years and how could they possibly let the only key in the world slip through their fingers?"

He didn't know what she was talking about.

Part of him knew she wasn't even _there_.

The rest of him listened closely.

"Stop playing by their rules. You never did before. Grow a pair."

"Okay," he said, quiet and uncertain. He didn't want them to hear.

Claire smiled. "Thats good. I trust you, Chris. You'll do the right thing. I can count on you, man. You always do the right thing."

She slipped past him then, through the door and into his bunk.

Neither Jill nor Wesker noticed her.

Why should they?

She wasn't their stray dog.

* * *

The six knives glistened in the artificial light of the kitchen and Chris pulled one out tentatively. It was sharpened, undoubtedly kept in impeccable shape by Wesker. Chris frowned at the thought and drew one finger over the edge of the blade.

A drop of blood instantly welled up but he felt nothing because the blade was so...

Perfect.

_That asshole._

* * *

"Shit... Jesus..." She clutched her head.

Wesker pressed one blood-soaked hand to his wet side. The knife lay on the ground, right beside its previous wielder.

"That's it," he said. "He's never getting coffee again."

Jill checked for a pulse, and, relieved when she found one, started investigating Chris's body for additional injuries.

"He's not himself, Al. You know that. Shit... you have to be more careful next time. You nearly broke his ribs."

Wesker was shocked by her concern for the other man.

"Were you present, Jill? When he _stabbed_ me? Hmmm?"

"Are you surprised?" Her question was sincere.

He never answered as they carried Chris back to his room, tied his arms to the bed with a zip tie.

When they closed the door behind them and left to continue their daily errands, it was Claire who sat by his side and waited until he woke.

"Good job, Chris... good job..."

* * *

A day later, Claire returned.

"You should apologize now. They'll untie you then. We'll start thinking about killing him again soon." Her smile was gentle though her words were those of murder plots.

"_What?_ Apologize?" He struggled, tugging on the restraints.

She stood, glaring at him. Disgust.

"Yes, _Chris_. You're not doin' much good here, are you?" She was angered by his arguing. "You're pathetic, all tied to a fucking bed. You let them beat you. You must not have a drop of Redfield in you, you-"

"Alright! Fuck! Shut up!"

In the lab, Jill and Wesker looked up and then at each other as his voice carried out through the hatch.

He was talking to himself.

"He's been through a lot, Al." She defended him.

Wesker didn't reply, his eyes fixed on the hall.

* * *

Later that day, a much more reserved Chris apologized, making promises of never losing his cool, making excuses for his behavior. And he was allowed to rejoin them... as soon as they had secured every "weapon-ish" item in the hatch.

* * *

She coughed. Wet coughs.

Wesker looked up, peering over the square frames of the reading glasses.

She coughed again, this time bracing herself on the wall of the hallway.

Wesker stood then, somewhere between alarm and annoyance.

"It's fine." She wheezed, coughing again, finally dislodging whatever had been in her throat. "Your uterus is fine."

He adjusted the glasses and sat down, picking up the pen while watching her suspiciously. "If you are ill, Jill, I need to know."

She shook her head and dumped the basket of her dirty clothes in the washbasin.

"I'm fine, Wesker. Trust me."

* * *

They would find in two days time that Jill was not "fine".

"Hey."

Wesker turned, a mug in his hand. He stared blankly at Chris, who hadn't acknowledged his presence since the apology for the stabbing.

"She's sick."

* * *

Jill lie on her side in the bunk. Her eyes fluttered open when Wesker appeared behind Chris.

He knelt and smelled the air around her, his nose detecting nuances better than most physicians. His thumb held up one of her eyelids, watching her pupillary response. Fingers on her throat, at the pulse. Finally, a surprisingly cool wrist held to her forehead. She was too weak to move, too bleary to speak.

Wesker looked back at Chris. "We need to leave. We need to leave now."

* * *

He used his strength to force the hatch door open. It was heavy with snow and ice.

Chris handed her up the ladder.

In Wesker's arms, she went limp, except for the weak fingers clinging to his coat.

Clinging to him.

* * *

"She's really hot."

"Unbutton her shirt."

Chris undid the flannel, his breath fogging the frigid air of the car. She laid on her back, her legs over Chris's, her clothes half off in an effort to bring her fever down. She wheezed when she breathed.

"Shhhh..." Chris whispered. "Hang on, baby."

Wesker hadn't heard Chris use that word in nearly a decade.

Under ordinary circumstances, it would have turned his stomach.

On this day, it did not.

* * *

A fist through the glass, the icy wind blowing in, stirring dust that hadn't been disturbed in five years.

Wesker yanked on the lock at the top of the door. His fingers slipped and fumbled. He was breathing quickly; he felt his heart ache with exertion.

He needed to hurry. Of all the times to rush, he needed to at this moment.

He needed to hurry.

He needed to hurry.

Chris watched, a lifeless Jill in his arms. "Shhhh..." He bounced her gently, like a baby.

Wesker found the pick and pulled down hard, freeing the emergency room doors.

Chris blew past him and down the dark corridor.

* * *

Stained stretchers lined the hallway. Filth and grime and smeary red hand prints painted the walls. Unrecognizable corpses, dried out and mummified, found their resting places in some beds, the curtains in various states of privacy around the sick bay.

Wesker clicked on the flashlight as Chris settled Jill on a cot. He was mumbling to her, touching her face.

"Jesus Christ, she's so _warm_. Shit." He was afraid.

She inhaled, gasping like a fish out of water, her eyes squeezed shut in pain. They could hear the whistling of bloody mucus in her lungs.

"Roll her over. Pound on her back."

Chris hesitated at the order.

"_Now_, Redfield!" He roared.

Wesker flung open cabinets around the nurses' station. His flash light flew from shelf to shelf. He was skimming the tags, identifying the nature of the grouped drugs. He had to squint. The letters blurred together - a sudden and hysterical bout of stigmatism. Pausing, he rubbed his eyes, letting the elliptical pupils expand and contract behind the eyelids.

Of all the times he needed his sight to work, it was now.

He needed to see.

_Where the hell did he leave those goddamn glasses she'd gotten him?_

He needed to hurry and see.

He needed to...

"Hey."

He whipped around, nose-to-nose with Chris.

They stared at each other. _Deja vu._

Wesker could see the bloody stitches on Chris's shoulder, could smell the sterile sweetness of the busy hospital room, could feel Jill to his left, could hear his own voice berating Chris. He was taken back.

He knew Chris felt it too. How could he not? It was so reminiscent. But he didn't care then. Didn't care about rank or pride or... whatever else they could find to hate each other with. Neither did Chris. For once, there seemed to be something bigger than the both of them.

He took the flashlight from Wesker's hand, holding it back up to the shelves.

"Go to her. And tell me what I'm looking for," he said quietly.

* * *

_Pneumocystis jiroveci._

A bacterial pneumonia, often affecting both lungs.

An illness of those with a compromised immune system.

Characterized by severe chest pain on inspiration, thick, rust-colored sputum, chills, fever, and lower intestinal upset.

If a speedy prognosis and treatment plan is not made, mortality rates go dramatically up.

* * *

"We need a sulfamethoxzole or a trimethoprim."

"English, Wesker."

"Septra. Antibiotic."

Chris searched the rows of chemicals, repeating the words to himself.

"Alright. I found the antibiotics. I'm not seeing Septra."

"Levaquin?"

Chris noisily moved the little glass bottles around, disorganizing rows, knocking a few to the countertop. "No. What was that first one?

"Sulfamethoxzole." He pulled Jill to a sitting position. She lulled forward and coughed weakly. He rapped on her lower back, trying to help her break up the infection.

"Spell it, Wesker."

"S-U-L-F-A-M-E-T-H-"

"Bactrim?" He asked, holding up a bottle in the beam of the flashlight.

"_Yes."_

* * *

Wesker administered an undiluted injection and then hooked up an IV.

Chris watched, chewing what little was left of his nails. "Will she... is she going to..."

Wesker looked up, eyes burning. _"She must."_

* * *

His hand wouldn't fit.

He wanted the Cheetos. Badly.

He rocked the machine.

Only a little at first.

Then violently before he collapsed.

He wept, silent, tearless sobs, his face pressed to the freezing glass, the ghostly images of stale junk food floating before his fuzzy vision.

The painful need for Cheetos masked the painful need for something else.

_"Please... Please Jill... Not again... It's my fault..."_

There was a hand balled in the back of his shirt, yanking him up - not cruelly, not in anger as he'd once felt.

Chris quickly covered his eyes and turned away, hiding the remnants of weakness. He sniffled and wiped at his nose.

Wesker dropped a heel through the glass this time.

"What am I looking for?" He asked, hands on hips. He kept his back to Chris - allowing him a moment to compose himself.

Chris cleared his throat. "Cheetos."

Without looking, he tossed the bag back and said, "She's coming in and out. You should be there."

* * *

Wesker fiddled with the IV. He was perched on the edge of her cot and Chris knelt on the other side.

She was still feverish, which, Wesker explained, would be expected for several days. He droned on that there would be blood in the mucus, and that she might require weeks of graduated bed rest. Chris half-listened as he stared at her.

Her breaths were shallow and quick. She couldn't fill her lungs; her body was exhausted. He saw how small she was and it made him afraid.

She opened her eyes slowly and they both leaned over her.

Chris smiled, relieved at the tiniest signs. He cupped her cheek, his thumb stroking the fine bone. "Oh God, Jilly..."

When he said her name, everything came rushing back into him - every memory he had of them together: every touch, every exchange, every word, good and bad. For a moment, she was his Jill again - Jilly-Bean, Jill Valentine, Jill... Redfield.

Their eyes met.

He waited for the same recognition, for the same awakening - but instead, she looked confused.

She turned her face to Wesker, eyes sleepy... and she reached for _him_.

He caught her hand as it moved, placing it over her own heart.

"She's delirious," he said quietly, trying to cover up what had just transpired.

And Chris nodded, pretending right along with him.

His sister though, stood in the shadows and judged.

* * *

**_"Those who dream by day are cognizant of the many things that escape those that dream by night."_**

**_ - Edgar Allan Poe_**


	22. Chapter 22

_I wanna be the one who / Gives them my world / And gives them all the feeling of it / Just a little taste of it_

_- Kings of Leon_

* * *

It was a slow recovery. For both of them.

Chris had stopped talking to "Claire". He seemed healed somewhat. Different.

He might venture to say... reliable. Trustworthy even - to a certain degree of course.

Wesker watched as Chris nursed her back. He stood aside and let the other man find his way home to her.

He detested it but things had to be that way.

Chris had to drop his guard. Fall in love. Whatever it took.

He had to.

* * *

Jill pulled the blanket tighter around her shoulders. "Don't go alone."

Wesker scoffed and crossed his arms.

"Take him." Sniffling and a cough. "Don't forget that stuff either. He's ready." She laid back down, turning over.

He didn't even glance at her as he left.

* * *

It was a long ride to Wal-Mart.

Just the two of them.

He heard every breath. He heard every swallow. Every fidget, every sigh, every move.

He had always suspected but now he knew.

Chris Redfield's very existence drove him mad.

* * *

Chris dusted off the top of the box.

"That isn't on her list."

He glared into the shadows. Wesker had found him in electronics.

Chris tossed it in the cart anyway.

Wesker looked at it.

iHome.

* * *

"It's my fault. That Jill's sick."

Wesker's fingers tapped the steering wheel. "No doubt. She hasn't been exposed to human filth in years."

Chris ignored the disgust in his voice. "I was really sick before I found her. I'm pretty sure I almost died."

Wesker _tsked_. "Oh, how _terrible._"

Chris shook his head.

"And how did you get a pneumonia?"

"Some guy." Nonchalant. Tossed in almost carelessly. _Some guy._ As if the world hadn't ended years ago.

Wesker's entire being jumped, jarred awake. _"What?"_

"There was a group I sorta ran into. A while back."

"A group? Of humans?" He couldn't conceal the agitation in his voice. Monotone had completely abandoned him.

"Yeah. A bunch of religious nuts. I only stuck it out with them for like, a week. Couldn't do it after that. Rather have been by myself."

Exasperation. "A... I'm not... They survived?"

"Yeah. Maybe 10 of them. A couple of girls too. Pregnant and dragging their asses through the snow. They were really whacked out." He made motions of a large belly with his hands.

Wesker couldn't compute. He struggled to even find the words. "And you let them leave you?"

"Leave _me_? I had to leave them. In the middle of the night. They were batshit crazy, Wesker. Talking about sacrifices. The Holy Tribe or something. Your fucking monsters drove them way the hell out there. They weren't gonna let me go."

"Where were they going?"

"I dunno. Someplace in California, I think. I was too busy freezing to death to care."

* * *

Wesker let Chris go down into the bunker with the groceries.

In a fit of rage, he put his fist through the trunk of a tree.

Survivors.

They _lived._

They were out there - clearly looking for a purpose, a leader, a God.

And yet he was here.

In Eden, Oregon.

With Lilith and her fallen angel Sameal.

* * *

They laid on their stomachs. The cement floor was cold.

He plugged in the adaptor first.

Then connected the device.

He pressed the button in the upper right corner.

"God. It's been years. I dunno if it even works anymore, Jill."

They watched, bumping shoulders. Flirting.

A battery appeared on the screen.

It was charging.

They both smiled.

"Now... we wait."

Wesker frowned and left the lab, the journal under his arm.

Chris saw him go.

* * *

Chris turned the volume all the way up on the dock. Something neither one of them could recall played.

He flipped through the song catalog, Jill looking over his shoulder. He moved, blocking her view.

She smiled but narrowed her eyes.

"No cheating, Valentine."

He settled on a song and looked up.

Hand out, he motioned to her.

She shook her head, laughing and then launching into a coughing fit.

"Come on, Jill."

"No. Definitely... no."

"Yes. One dance. Old times."

She rolled her eyes and crossed her arms. Her ear-to-ear grin said something else.

"Com'ere."

He was persistent. So like his old self in that moment.

His fingers closed over her wrist. She make-believed a struggle, giggling, and let herself be dragged into his embrace.

"No." One last, uninspired effort.

His hand on the small of her back. One hand on his shoulder, the fingers of the other twining with his. She was smiling so broadly, she was almost embarrassed. She couldn't look at him, her eyes on their feet.

Chris began to lead her, tiny steps, swaying. He brought her closer, pressed his cheek to hers. "Remember that time we went to that country bar? And everyone there was like, 60 plus, and they all had on their cowboy boots and the 10-gallon hats?"

Jill closed her eyes, leaned into him, reliving. "Yeah."

He pushed her out, spun her. She stiffened, but followed, her body relaxing, falling into familiar ways.

He pulled her back in, tighter than before. Looked into her eyes. "And that old lady kept trying to show us how to do that one dance. But I couldn't pick it up, and she kept getting madder and madder... And we just kept laughing..."

He let her dip back, hand dangerously close to her ass. She looked lovely - one long curve in his arms. He stared at her throat, eyes traced the length up to her jaw.

He recalled how it felt to put his mouth _there_. He licked his lips and brought her back up.

She kept her eyes closed, afraid of what she already felt, what she might see when she looked at him. The man who had been her world for so many years.

She'd gone so long without... this.

Her hands squeezed his arms.

And he kissed her.

* * *

Over her shoulder, he looked for Claire.

She wasn't there.

He breathed deeply, breathed Jill in.

Closed his eyes and danced. Unafraid.

* * *

In the shadows of the hallway, _he_ stood alone.

He watched them.

And felt it again.

That pain in his chest. Unable to breathe. An ache in his skull.

His teeth ground together until they hurt.

He didn't speak to Jill for days after that.

* * *

_Romania. November, 2008._

"Open."

He did.

"Tongue out."

She inspected it carefully. It was the basis for her diagnosis.

She was rough when she took his pulse. She didn't know who he was, what he was capable of. She was a healer though, so he let her move him this way and that.

He gave the old woman credit; she hadn't flinched at his eyes.

"Too much yang. Liver and heart. Take off your clothes. Lay down."

She began at his feet. As she inserted the first needle, she spoke to him in her native language. "The _Qi_ is stagnant. We have to unblock it." When his skin twitched, she let go, leaving the quivering needle in between the joints of his toe. "This will help the eye strain and calm your nerves."

She moved his leg, encouraging him to bend it. Under his knee, she inserted another needle. He felt a _twinge_ and then a not unpleasant numbness as it touched a nerve.

"This is for the problems in your bed. Your blood is too hot. A woman's body will not respond to hot blood. She will never conceive. It is bad for her yin."

She pulled on his wrists and fingers, rubbing the joints, popping them. The knuckles in his shooting hand ached from the ministrations, but he kept still.

Two more needles in the webbing between his thumbs and forefingers. "Headaches. Anxiety."

The final needles she pushed into his brow, above both eyes.

"For insomnia. Anger."

He laid on the massage table, the candles dripping around him.

She left him there to meditate and heal.

* * *

After the session, she led him to the bath downstairs, took the towel from his waist as he eased into the hot water. He felt he was in a dream - the glow of the sauna hazy and soft, gauzy curtains hanging in the humid stillness, the stones of the pool smooth on his feet and legs. A white lotus flower floated past him. As he reclined, he drifted someplace between sleep and life.

"I can smell your perfume, Ada. Come out. Enjoy this with me."

A gun cocked. The Punisher.

He knew it well - he'd given it to her.

"That's a beautiful scent." He inhaled deeply. "Bergamot. Peach. Undertones of sandalwood. What is it?"

He opened his eyes, deliberate and unhurried.

She sat on the edge of the bath, her feet moved in the water, delicious ripples washing over his chest.

"Imperial Majesty. I'm glad you like it."

He was thoughtful, drowsy in the heat. Steam misted up from the pool.

"Do you still wear perfume _there_?"

The gun was trained on him though she smiled and her body arched, her mind running through the times he'd found her secret places, her favorite spots.

He sank into the pool, head back, all the way. Submerged.

She watched, her seductive smile replaced with an expression of concern. Her grip on the gun tightened.

He broke the surface, no closer to her. She was relieved. He ran his hands back over his face, his hair. Watched her again with reptilian eyes.

"I see you're still into all this hocus-pocus." She studied the ancient maps of the human body that lined the wall - meridians and flows of energy, how to tap into power. Old paintings, mystical writing, forgotten symbols and voiceless languages.

The water stirred and the gun was raised again in an instant. He laughed at her excitability.

"You know that won't do any good." He nodded to the weapon. "You can't kill me with a handgun."

"It will slow you down. That's all I need it to do."

He smirked, drops of scented water clinging to his thick blond lashes. "Oh Ada, why are you so hostile? I've let you be, have I not?"

"My name, Wesker - it keeps coming up connected to yours. I thought we agreed to sever ties."

"And I _have_ severed ties. You know that. We never play anymore..." He knelt to the stone bottom, leaving only his eyes above the water line. Predatory. Sexual. She almost shivered as she recalled their nights spent together. They'd nearly been the death of each other.

"They're looking for you. They're very, very close to finding you."

He stood then, sighing. The barrel of her gun was fixed on his face from where she sat, her toes swishing in the hot water. He was nude and magnetic as ever. Her eyes wandered downward slowly.

"They, they, _they._ Who are we talking about? The BSAA?"

"I've been approached by their fearless leader. Twice. Now, what is his name?" She played with him, mock forgetfulness. "Chris Redfield, right? He's a real... piece of work."

Wesker chuckled, running a hand through his hair, incredulous.

_How many fucking years would he have to put between himself and that fool?_

"You have something of his, apparently." She set down the weapon, confident that he would have slaughtered her already if he'd intended to.

He gave her an ambiguous sideways stare. "I apologize for any inconvenience."

She began to unbutton the cheongsam. "He would make a deal with you, if he knew... I could broker it. I can end this witch hunt."

Wesker watched the silk-covered buttons slip through the eyelets. He remembered how heavy the material was in his hands. It had surprised him then, how it didn't wrinkle, even after laying on the floor for hours.

"He wants to know what happened to her. He thinks you're alive and that you've got her body. He can't prove anything, but the idea is there. Soon enough, he'll put it all together." Ada was not wearing a bra. "He's a desperate man. He'll let you go, forever, if you just give him that woman..."

He gazed at her, through her. His body was not reacting how she'd imagined it would when she began this game. The dress puddled at her feet as she stood. She was disappointed.

"Did you tell him anything, silly girl?" He smiled for her. Debonair, disarming. She knew he would crush her skull without a second thought if she answered incorrectly.

She slipped into the water, walking through the pool to meet him.

"I'm smarter than that, Wesker. They're watching _her_ though - your charming Excella. They're suspicious. Your fingerprints are all over every Machiavellian move she makes. I can't imagine what they will do when they find out you're alive."

She traced a drop of water as it trailed down his chest. He made no motion for her to continue. No motion for her to stop. He was a statue under her touch.

"She must be special, this... Jill you're willing to wage war for."

Her hand slid lower, over smooth stomach, and lower still.

She found him unaroused.

Someone had changed Wesker. Where there had been boundless appetite for flesh, there now was none.

"I must admit, Wesker, I never thought you would let a woman exert such control over the situation... over _you_." Ada was careful, quiet as she tried to coax a reaction from him.

He beamed at her audaciousness. That slick, sarcastic mouth was what had drawn him in, what kept her alive even though he had no more use for her, particularly after her digression. Theirs was an intellectual bond, a mutual respect for each other's treachery.

It could not bind him to her forever though.

"Why not let her go? If you do, he'll back away from it, and without him, the BSAA will be nothing. Another toothless government watchdog."

"_Never,_" he whispered, kissing her forehead.

Ada realized her mistake. This wasn't about Chris Redfield, or revenge.

It was much more insidious.

_This_ was about the woman he had possession of.

She stared at him as he stepped out of the water.

She wondered if she'd ever lay with him again.

If she'd ever even _see_ him again.

She thought about what the little cop from Raccoon City had done, how she'd changed everything, whether he admitted it or not.

Jill Valentine.

The most dangerous woman in the world.

* * *

It was _the night._

He'd gotten her what she asked for when they went raiding.

Chris hadn't noticed it though he'd been standing in the same aisle.

Tonight, she would hold up her end of the bargain.

* * *

From across the lab, Wesker watched, pen tapping on the desk, knee bouncing.

Her eyes flitted to him and then back to Chris, who was letting her ponytail fall through his fingers.

_Guilt?_

"You ready? You look sleepy." He touched the back of her neck, spoke tenderly to her.

Wesker set the pen down, lined it up with a paper on the lab table. Made sure it was even. Perfect. Repeated the action. The knee bounced furiously.

Anything to keep his attention off of them.

He heard them rustle, get up. They walked toward the hallway. With each step, his heart raced a little faster, pushed a little harder.

"Night, old man."

He looked up at Chris, who nodded to him.

Their fingers were laced - loose, gentle. With Chris, it was delicate link, so unlike the nooses the two of _them_ tightened around each other's throats. She stared at Wesker as they walked past, until she disappeared into the shadows of the hall.

To Chris's bed.

Wesker heard the bunker door open and close.

Nothing had ever sounded so loud.

* * *

"_Ora è permesso di mangiare a tavola?"_

The cloth napkin was crumpled in her hand. She stared at Jill, seated next to him near the head - where he always sat.

He ruffled the Cape Town newspaper and continued to read. Jill, unblinking and entranced, sat with her hands in front of her. The silverware glittered, the dishware as yet untouched.

Before that moment, it had always been one setting for Excella. Nothing for him.

It had been a charming little routine. She would eat three small courses (watching her weight - he enjoyed a thin waist), babble on between each plate, he would sit opposite her, pretending to listen.

But now... the pet would join them.

And how he kept her so close... To his right. Within reach.

_His right hand._

Excella, unnerved and confused, took her chair at the other end of the long table.

She placed the napkin across her lap, straightened her spine, and pushed down the burgeoning scream she wanted to loose.

She reminded herself of her duty to him.

He was a man, nearly a god. He had needs perhaps she could not satisfy. All men were prone to straying - particularly powerful, wealthy men. It was natural, inevitable. And it meant nothing.

Her mother had told her so.

Her mother was always right.

As they brought out the first course, she prayed that this year, he might marry her.

* * *

"Eat, Jill. You don't need my permission for _that_." He watched her.

Excella watched too.

A bacon cheeseburger.

The flea had asked for a bacon cheeseburger.

Her personal chef had studied at the Cordon Bleu and specialized in Northern French cuisine. But the woman wanted to eat the food of a pauper.

She could have had any dish in the world: Iranian caviar to start, or white truffle manchego crostini, then maybe a slice of the finest chateaubriand with La Bonnette potatoes... She could have followed it up with some dark squares of imported Noka and a frothy cappuccino.

But her only desire was a cheeseburger.

Jill's eyes were downcast. She took a tentative bite.

Wesker's foot tapped the hardwood floor as she chewed.

"Is it what you requested?"

She nodded, still avoiding his gaze.

He pulled the plate away from her; she flinched at his movement.

He examined the part of the hamburger she'd taken a bite from.

"That isn't rare. You wanted it rare, correct?"

Jill cleared her throat and then whispered, "Yes, but it's good-"

"Fire them all."

Excella's eyes widened. _"What?"_

"Fire them. All of them."

"The entire staff? Over... ground meat? You cannot be serious. Lucien has been with my family since I was a child, Albert."

"_Excella!"_ His fist hit the table. Jill winced and turned her face away from him. "You will fire them! And that is the end of it!"

Excella looked down then too.

The handful of field greens that was her main course were wilting under the thin vinaigrette.

He had decided that for her.

While he permitted his animal to eat as it pleased.

He was just testing her devotion, she told herself.

She would show him. They would all be gone by the morning and new staff hired by the afternoon.

This was just a test.

She didn't speak for the rest of the meal.

* * *

He gave Jill her own room in the African mansion - one with an adjoining door to his suite.

He would lock her in and retire to his own bed, Excella at his heels.

She refused to let them have a minute alone.

Jill was glad for it.

* * *

At night, the sounds of their struggle would slip under the crack of the door and find their way into Jill's mind.

Fragments of Excella's frustration expressed in sharp Italian, his cruel silence to her questions, her pleading and crying.

Jill would hear sounds of her pleasuring him - wet and relentless. A different kind of pleading and crying elicited from her.

Some nights, Excella's performances would go on for hours.

Yet she never heard Wesker.

Not once.

* * *

He looked around the lab.

It was all he had in the New World.

Once, he had thought he might have Jill - to control, to play with, to mould.

He realized that he had just borrowed her.

From the man down the hall. The man who ruined everything.

The one he was only half of.

* * *

The door woke him from his trance.

It had only been two, maybe three minutes.

Jill came to the end of the hall. Barefoot. Just a T-shirt.

Wesker was still enough to be made of stone.

Confusion. A feeling of weightlessness. Of falling before an impact.

She approached him, slowly at first... then she nearly ran to him.

* * *

She kissed exactly how he'd imagined she would.

Her hands on his face. Her chest pressed to him. Her knee between his legs.

Frantic kisses. Kisses so hard and demanding, he could do nothing but let her take.

* * *

She tried to pull away. "Please." She begged him, breathless.

He kissed the inside of her wrist, kissed up her arm, dragged her back in.

He remembered - pulling her to the surface, saving them both.

She stumbled to his lap. "Please, Al."

Her eyes closed tightly as his mouth found her throat, found and claimed where the T-shirt fell off her shoulder, his arms and hands bringing her closer.

"Please. Stop making it this way." Murmured into his chest, where she tried to hide.

She kissed him again, sealed them together, ate him alive.

"I love him. I should love him." Whispered into his mouth, where she tried to escape. "I _have_ to love him."

His hands on her. Everywhere. Nowhere. He was kissing her face.

She struggled. They were drowning. He was desperate.

"Don't." His mouth closed over her earlobe. "Don't, Al. Let me go."

Pleading for her release as she clung to him.

"This is what you want. I'm doing this for you," she said, trying untangle, unwind herself from him.

She kissed him one last time.

He knew it was the last time because it was the slowest.

He didn't look at her when she got up.

She sniffled. Wiped her eyes with the back of her hand. Composed herself.

"It's part of the plan, Al. Gotta stick to the plan..."

* * *

She went to Chris that night.

She had sex with him.

Left the warm cup in the bathroom, like they agreed.

A tablespoon of the result. Maybe less.

She held up her end of the bargain.

* * *

A tear escaped from her.

"I'm sorry," she said. "I have to go. I'm sorry."

_It felt like betrayal._

_Why did it feel like betrayal?_

She went to Chris.

He turned away so he didn't have to watch her leave.

_Coward that I am._

* * *

He pictured driving with her, back East. Driving forever, having left The Other behind.

Someplace subtropical. Florida perhaps. The long stretch of highway between the Keys. The cracked and battered pavement and the faded yellow lines. One lane each way.

Her legs half out the passenger window. His sunglasses pushed up in her hair.

He would say something clever to remind her of the night before.

Perhaps they'd had sex in a broken-down hotel for hours and hours; he had confessed _everything_ to her... and she had promised to forgive him.

Not that he needed her forgiveness _(he wanted it)._ Not that he wanted her forgiveness _(he needed it)._

Or perhaps it had just been fucking; the car parked in the middle of some forgotten road, her clothes ripped in his need, her body slick with sweat, the marks of her teeth on his shoulder so lovely he'd hope that they wouldn't fade.

She would laugh at his joke (like dishes breaking).

And in the middle of that dream, he remembered who he was.

_What_ he was.

What he _was not_.

This was his fairytale - he had written it.

This was his fairytale and he was the Monster.

* * *

_Would it be wrong to clamp down on your racing heart, love? / And if they know what sifted down to be found out? / It's not what you deserve _

_- The Broken Bells_


	23. Chapter 23

_AN: Liberal messing around with canon storyline and personal interpretations of characters here. Be warned._

_Thanks to all that reviewed that I didn't get back to._

_Enjoy,_

_sad little tiger_

* * *

_"The pain I feel now is the happiness I had before. That's the deal."_

_- C.S. Lewis_

* * *

_1977._

"Hey." He whispered as he slid into the empty chair. "Look at this." Wesker opened a leather-bound volume.

His scrawny friend pushed bottle-cap glasses up his nose, breathed heavily through his mouth.

"Jesus Christ, William. You could at least get new frames... maybe a breath mint. You never want to have sex, do you?"

Wesker was tall and muscular. He'd grown into his body faster than anyone in their class. And he was rumored to be using that body in ways the other guys couldn't even fathom.

A girl brushed past their table, making sure to bump him and look back over her shoulder. It was a clear invitation to join her somewhere secluded.

And why not?

He was cruelly handsome - a sharp, aristocratic nose; vicious, angry blue eyes; an ever-present smirk. He dressed far better than anybody their age _and_ he wore sunglasses indoors. No one - not one fucking jock - challenged him on that.

At 17, Albert Wesker was the baddest-ass _man_ that Birkin had ever met.

"Necromancy?" His voice was nasal. "What the hell is that?"

"Shhhh..." Wesker glared, hunkering over the book, protective. "The dead. Raising the dead."

"Oh, bullshit, Al."

"Keep... your voice... down..."

"Come back when you've got something real." He glanced at the open book again. "You know I'm not into that occult trash. That's your bag."

"This is good. This is as good as it will ever get, Will. Trust me."

Birkin raised an eyebrow.

Interning for Umbrella had proven lucrative - both boys were practically guaranteed a high position with the corporation. Lately though, William had grown uncomfortable with the nature of their assignments.

They'd been dealing with a lot of "re-engineering". It was the start of a new age - gene therapy they called it - and something referred to as "cellular reanimation". The horizon of medical advances was broad.

Too broad.

William felt like they were walking on a minefield.

"When have I ever been wrong?" Wesker smiled, wicked.

In truth, he'd been wrong many times.

But Birkin followed and did what he was told. He knew he might have the touch as far as the numbers, but Albert Wesker would always be the brains (and the face) of whatever scheme they hatched.

"Alright, fine. Let me see." He reached for the book.

They were interrupted.

"You pussies jerking each other off over here?"

Jake Belltower.

An athlete, naturally.

Before William had a chance to react, Wesker was on his feet, backing the other boy into a shelf.

Birkin saw the knife in Wesker's hand.

His friend was bold... but not _that_ bold. Something had taken over.

"Al, slow down."

But there was no slowing down for Albert Wesker.

At Jake's throat, the blade glinted in the green lamp light.

"You're a rude meathead, aren't you?" Wesker hissed.

William could see their classmate's pulse, thumping wildly in his throat.

"I should give you a Columbian Necktie, Mr. Belltower. Do you know what that is? A Columbian Necktie?" Wesker's face didn't change. He was stone.

Jake didn't respond, his back against the books, gulping as the blade bit into him.

"Al, let him go. He's scared. You won." Birkin tried to reason.

Wesker was still, debating. Jake's breathing labored.

"I'm going to give you ten seconds to get out."

He stepped away, giving just enough ground for the boy to escape.

Lumbering footfalls down the carpeted aisle.

Birkin began to shake. "Goddamn it! What if he tells? You know I'm on scholarship! It'll be both our asses!"

"The hell it will," he mumbled. He was looking around the bookshelves, waiting to see what kind of attention he'd drawn.

"Wha- why?"

"I made a friend."

"Who?"

"James Marcus. And I've got him right... _here_."

Wesker held up a pinky, his cold eyes narrowing.

"Marcus? You met him? You talked to him? When?" Birkin's voice cracked in excitement.

James Marcus _the _Head Researcher. Lauded genius. Idol.

_How in the hell had Albert...?_

"Doesn't matter. Listen. He wants us on this. He's going to let us loose."

"Us? _What?_ What are you talking about?"

"We're going to do this. We're going to use your giant brain to make a corpse into a bioweapon."

Birkin couldn't ignore his friend's enthusiasm.

It was rare to see Wesker with a hard-on for something other than his own reflection.

"Uh... Okay. Alright." He agreed and looked back at the book.

_Necromancy._

Sounded a lot like something he'd regret.

* * *

She traced the highway with a finger. Followed it up and over to where land met sea.

Wesker watched from across the lab.

"What are you doing?" He still questioned everything she did, but not with the contempt of yesteryear.

Chris looked up from the Sodoku he was working on. Level: Difficult.

The map of Oregon framed her where she stood. She crossed her arms.

"I've never seen the Pacific Ocean," she said. Her voice was dreamlike. "Isn't that strange? Been around the world..."

Wesker turned the pen over in his hand and thought.

"I could take you. Six hour drive, maybe seven," Chris said.

"Yeah. I'd like that."

"You would be willing to drive six hours to... look at salt water?" Wesker asked.

"It's more than that. It's the experience. It's saying I've been to the Pacific Ocean."

"Who exactly will you be saying this to?"

"Forget it, Jill. It's lost on him. He hasn't got any sense of intrinsic value." Chris cut in before it became a debate.

"_It_ has such big words now! _Intrinsic_!" Wesker sneered, clapping.

"Oh God, can you ever shut your fucking mouth?" Chris began to stand.

A romance novel flew between them, nearly clipping Wesker's nose.

They looked at Jill.

"One of you... is going to take me to the goddamn Pacific Ocean."

* * *

"We need to dump the car, hoss. Unless you wanna push this piece of shit."

Wesker glanced up into the rearview mirror. Chris lounged in the backseat. Their eyes met, waging a silent war.

Dead automobiles littered the cracked and diseased pavement. He drove through them, around them, going slower than he'd like.

They turned into the nearest gas station.

* * *

Wesker broke the rusting padlock with a single yank. Bare hands.

Even Chris was impressed.

He hefted the ancient garage door up. The chain clinking as it wound through the pulley system. It locked in place and he let go.

Brushed the dust off his hands. Light cut in through the musty air. The smell of old car oil. Rubber. Assault of the senses.

Jill could almost hear the mechanics working. The whir of machines she couldn't put names to.

Cars forgotten up on lifts. Tools scattered. They'd left in a hurry.

Wesker walked the length of the garage. Dirt billowed out behind him, his foot prints like fossils in the layer of grime on the floor.

Jill and Chris watched as he paused in front of a tarped car. He crouched and lifted the hem of the canvas cover. He smiled.

Wesker pulled the fabric off, letting it hang in the air before allowing it to float to his feet. He stripped, undressed, seduced the car with the theatricality he'd no doubt used on many a woman.

Chris whistled in approval.

* * *

Jill stood by, brow furrowed. Wesker ran his knuckles over every metal curve while Chris laughed to himself and tenderly lifted the hood.

"What is it?" she asked. "What's so special?"

Both turned to her.

"_What?_" The car didn't look _that_ nice.

Wesker shook his head, disgusted by her ignorance. He fondled the steering wheel with an obscene sensuality.

"An Aston Martin, Jill. A DB5."

* * *

_1996._

"You look nervous, Will. Stop fidgeting."

He sighed. Wesker kept the sunglasses on. He hated those fucking sunglasses.

_Who the fuck did he think he was? Johnny Cash?_

Birkin looked at his watch.

It was the same time it had been less than a minute before.

"Stop it."

"I can't! It's like we're waiting for a verdict or something. You know I hate these interrogations."

Wesker shook his head, paging lazily through a report.

"And take off those sunglasses. You look like an ass." Birkin growled.

He smiled. Didn't take them off.

The door finally opened.

"Mr. Spencer will see you now," the secretary said, holding it for them.

* * *

"You boys have been keeping busy." Spencer's back was to them as he looked out the bay windows.

A sideways glance to each other.

"Nice, clean job on Marcus. I'm surprised. Truly."

Wesker's back straightened in the seat. He so loved a compliment... especially of the macabre sort.

"You've been training, Albert, have you not? Combat and such?"

"Yes, sir."

Spencer turned to them, looked Wesker up and down. "You're a strong young man. And with a mind like a bear trap, so I've heard. A solid leader."

Birkin watched Wesker's mouth twitch in the corner. He wanted to smile. Badly.

"That's why I've got a new assignment for you."

Birkin looked away.

"Sir?" Wesker was confused.

"I want you out of the lab - I need you out there, controlling things for me." Spencer sat down at the antique desk. "That's what you're good at, Practical Al. Control."

Wesker cleared his throat. "I'm sorry, I'm not understanding - "

"Intelligence. Transfer effective immediately. I imagine you'll like it very much there. Head of your own unit and so on."

Wesker looked to Birkin, searched for a reaction - a refusal or a rebuttal to Spencer's orders. They'd been partners for years, just the two of them. They were inseparable. This entire thing would be impossible... Who would Birkin be with _him_?

But Will said nothing, did nothing. He just stared at the floor.

_No. He couldn't have known. He wouldn't do this. He couldn't._

"Sir, we're on the verge... The Tyrant -"

"The Tyrant Plan has stalled. You know that," William said softly.

He was silenced by the gravity of Birkin's words.

"He's right, Albert. We're moving in a new direction. The G-Virus will be the focus now. I'm putting William on it." Spencer seemed to bore with the conversation, trailing off as he sorted through papers on the desk.

Wesker looked at Birkin. "What will you... He _needs_ me." A last attempt to Spencer.

"I think that I've got it under control, Dr. Wesker. And I think the change will be good for you. Good for Umbrella too."

Wesker couldn't believe it. He was under the bus. And Birkin was driving.

"He's right. It's not personal; just business. We have to do what's best for the company. And right now, the company needs to move on the S.T.A.R.S. unit."

_We have to do what's best for the company... just business..._ The words echoed in his head, barely meaning anything at all.

"Well boys, keep it up. You're my shining stars here. You make Umbrella proud. I'll send that order for transfer around tomorrow, Albert." Spencer stood, offering his hand to both men, all but throwing them out after the letting the axe fall.

In a daze, Wesker got to his feet, Birkin already shaking on it, nodding appreciatively.

Will had him by the arm, leading him out of the great room.

"Come on, Al... Hold it together," he whispered, his grip tightening.

"Oh, and Albert -"

They turned to Spencer, still shuffling through paperwork on his desk. Wesker felt weak, light-headed. His world was crumbling.

"Take off those ridiculous sunglasses. You look like a lunatic, wearing them inside."

Birkin dragged him out.

* * *

Jill sank down in the seat. Her legs hanging half out of the car, hands folded over her lap. In front of her, their bag of provisions clanked as the car hugged the rocky cliff. Guns, canned food and Wesker's watered-down drug. A flashlight and a lighter. The iPod dock on the dashboard.

All they needed in the world.

It was still cold. She left the hoodie on. Snuggled into it.

The top was down and the morning light fell in the car, fell on all of them. The air was chilly and damp but the day was creeping in fast. The contrast was delicious. One second she shivered, the next she felt the threat of sweat.

Mountains on one side, a foggy green valley on the other. The sun was burning off the mist of night.

She had faith in this time, in this place. It was where they all belonged.

This was _their_ fate.

And they were alive -_ together._

She trusted Wesker as the car weaved through the precarious, steep roads.

Next to her, his hand worked the gear shift like an old lover.

She reached over, took the sunglasses off his face, put them on.

He looked at her, the sharpness in his eyes subdued. He saw her push the glasses back up the bridge of her nose with one finger (so much like him) before returning his attention to the road.

Chris watched the exchange.

Watched Wesker's non-reaction.

Didn't like the familiarity.

Not one bit.

* * *

"You missed that turn, I'm fuckin' telling you."

"If you would prefer to drive, Chris, go ahead. You can't even spell your own name - how do you expect to read the signs?"

They'd argued, roadside, for nearly half of an hour.

They'd been on the road for five already. There was still a ways to go.

The map was spread out over the hood of the car. They weren't even looking at it. Instead, they stood inches from each other, snarling.

Jill paced back and forth, biting her nails, listening to birds call.

Birds. That was still bizarre - to hear something other than herself, or Wesker. There were survivors out there; anything that could swim or run or fly, fast or deep or high enough to escape.

She stomped over and snatched up the map, folding it hastily. She glared at the both of them.

"Oh Christ. Put your dicks away. Just drive. Someone. _Anyone._"

* * *

"Sarah McLaughlin, Chris? Really?" She was laughing. Her finger stroked the iPod, scrolling through his catalog.

He smiled. "I listened to a lot of your stuff." His smile faded. "After you... when you were gone." He coughed and squinted at the road, tamping down whatever it was that he felt.

Wesker sighed from the backseat, stretching out his legs, positioning one of his bony knees close to Jill's elbow. In the side mirror, he saw her eyes dart to it, then away.

She chose a song.

It wasn't Sarah McLaughlin.

Chris heard the first few bars and turned up the volume on the little dock.

* * *

_My father he done told me_

_to ne'er hurt no one_

_but now I'm sick an' mad_

_an' I been caught red-handed_

_and I'm still my father's son_

* * *

"Would you rather have sex in a car or... in the bed of a pick up?" He yelled over the twang.

"Chris!" She scolded. "In front of him? Seriously?"

The devilish smile had returned. "Oh please, Jill. He's _seen_ us in action. Haven't you, Cap'n?"

Wesker rubbed his eyes.

* * *

_I lay awake 'til daylight_

_A pillow an' a gun_

_And if my secret dreams could be seen on screen_

_then they'll be comin' for this one..._

* * *

"Pick up." She responded more quickly than they had expected. "You?"

"Pick up. Definitely. Captain?" Chris's eyes narrowed in the rearview mirror.

The pressure was on.

He looked shocked - as if he couldn't imagine Chris daring to ask _him_.

"I will not play this game." More than a little flustered.

* * *

_Please Lord, now forgive me_

_Even though I don't deserve_

_I ne'er was too good at life_

_an' now the Devil's all I serve_

* * *

Jill smiled. "Alright, Debbie Downer. Chris, describe your first time."

She asked though she knew the story. Sometimes it was good to listen to something familiar, something safe.

Chris tapped the steering wheel in thought.

"I was 16. Right before my parents died. She was older. I think maybe, like, 20. It was in her dad's car in Cleveland. A Trans AM. We were drinking; Guns N' Roses was on the radio." He paused for a tight curve in the road, the wheel turning under his hands. "It was perfect."

"Which song?"

"_Don't Cry_, I think. I dunno. It all runs together. What about you?"

She took a breath before starting.

Couldn't go back now.

"I was 15. He was 16 - just got his license. It was right after prom." She stopped, too self-conscious.

Chris gestured impatiently for the rest (a reluctantly curious Wesker had an eyebrow raised).

"It was bad. Well, it was our first - of course it was bad."

Her eyes glazed over in the memory, innocent and pleasureless as it was. "God, if it wasn't exciting though."

"A little grope action in the school gym, right? During the slow songs?" Chris ribbed her. She blushed and covered her face. They could see her wide, embarrassed grin.

Her cheeks and chest were still flushed when she turned on Wesker. "Alright. Tell us."

* * *

_My woman she done lef' me_

_I told her twice to go_

_The first time she ignored me_

_but then I threw her on the floor._

* * *

He folded his arms, his expression sour. "This is a ridiculous game."

"Come on, old man..." Chris baited, turning down the music.

Wesker's nostrils flared. _"No."_ He felt his back rise as he was worked into a proverbial corner.

Jill's expression softened as she watched him bristle. "This makes him uncomfortable." She came to his defense.

* * *

_Well, I sleep with one eye open_

_I weep with both eyes closed_

_Darkness comin' down on me_

_Tomorrow ne'er knows_

* * *

Her pity though, made him feel inept. He began to reply but Chris cut him off.

"Oh yeah? This makes him feel uncomfortable? Well gee, I'm sorry. I'm uncomfortable too. I'm uncomfortable with the fact that the _everyone_ in my life is fucking dead right now!" The conversation had taken a bad turn.

Wesker stiffened, ready to deliver a burning retort... but was stopped.

Her hand was on his knee, trailing up the top of his thigh, squeezing.

He watched it, his jaw clenched.

Chris raged on someplace else. The landscape blurred. Everything had come to a halt.

* * *

_Haven' I suffered?_

_Haven' I suffered my fill?_

_And if you don't pray for me now_

_nobody e'er will..._

* * *

All of his senses focused on the place where she met him, on the coolness of her palm and her fingers compared to his own flesh, on the suggestive rub, on the proximity of his sworn enemy - her _lover_ - so close and unknowing.

He blinked and the eternity of her touch ended. She pulled back as Chris turned his attention from the road to her.

Wesker let out the breath, trapped in his lungs.

* * *

_Now I'm in the graveyard_

_It's darkness all around_

_Voices floating through me_

_speaking with no sound._

* * *

He was aggravated by her recoil, by the way they were forced to hide, by the pride he had given up.

But the shared secret of her hand on his leg was the fumbling first time in the backseat of her father's car, the clumsy, frantic groping in the shadowy school gym.

It was everything he had missed of his youth, maybe more.

More than he deserved.

* * *

_You were your father's son_

_but you left him far beyond_

_Beyond the reach of mercy_

_in the darkness of the sun._

_So down low, better slow down Lord_

_So down low, better slow down Lord_

_So down low, better slow down Lord..._

* * *

"Cannon Beach City Limits." Chris read aloud. He glanced in the mirror pointedly.

"Well, I stand corrected," Wesker muttered.

Jill squeezed Chris's arm. Excitement. "We're close."

Jealous red eyes observed and looked away. Remembered.

* * *

"No, Will, fuck you! You knew about this shit. You ambushed me in there!" Wesker was yelling.

"You have to listen to me. Just wait a -"

"You know what? Here." He was pulling off the white coat. He threw it at Birkin and started out the doors of the lab.

"Albert! Dammit! Listen to me!" William grabbed his arm and yanked.

Wesker cocked a fist, staring into the other man's eyes. "All these fucking years... Dragging you through school, through college... I got you a wife, Will. A goddamn _wife_. And you have the balls to fuck me in front of Spencer?"

"Do it. Hit me. Go ahead."

Wesker pulled the arm back, thinking, his mouth drawn tightly. "You wouldn't be anything without me. Nothing."

Birkin waited for the punch. "No. I wouldn't be. I wouldn't be here, I wouldn't be with Annette. I wouldn't have any of it."

Wesker backed off. "Then why would you just let that happen? To me? To _us_?"

"Because for once, I have a bigger plan."

They regarded each other - one suspicious, the other eerily confident.

"Are you ready to listen?"

Wesker sighed and sat on one of the lab stools.

"Go on, Will. But if it's not good, so help me God..."

* * *

The iPod went to random, pulled up an old favorite of Chris's.

* * *

_I am still living with your ghost_

_lonely and dreaming of the west coast_

_I don't wanna be your downtime_

_I don't wanna be your stupid game._

* * *

He drove right up on the packed sand.

It was about four in afternoon. The sun was still high.

The air was different here. Better than they could have imagined.

Jill had never seen anything so beautiful. She pushed the sunglasses up into her hair.

"The end of the world," she said.

And in many ways, it was.

* * *

_With my big black boots and an old suitcase_

_I do believe I'll find myself a new place_

_I don't wanna be the bad guy_

_I don't wanna do your sleepwalk dance anymore_

_I just wanna see some palm trees_

_I will try and shake away this disease._

* * *

Both men watched as she stepped out of her tennis shoes, pulled off the purple socks, rolled up the legs of the jeans. Walked to the water's ever-changing edge.

Chris followed her.

Wesker stayed behind and leaned on the car.

* * *

_We can live beside the ocean_

_Leave the fire behind_

_Swim out past the breakers_

_Watch the world die._

* * *

She was up to her calves in the little white-caps.

"Is it cold?"

"No! Come here," she said, holding out a hand.

He trusted and went to her.

Wesker shook his head. _It's the Pacific Ocean. It's always cold, you fool._

Their fingers touched, laced before he met the water and Chris knew something was off. He tried to pull away, laughing, but Jill jerked his arm - hard. Hard enough to compromise his balance. The sand washed out from under him as a wave rolled in.

* * *

_I am still dreaming of your face_

_Hungry and hollow for all the things you took away_

_I don't wanna be your good time_

_I don't wanna be your fall-back crutch anymore._

* * *

He went to his knees in the frigid water, caught himself before he was completely submerged.

Jill was in hysterics and she ran down the shoreline, taunting him, pulling the legs of her unrolling pants up. She came back around, closer to him. That messy laughter.

He was up and after her.

She darted away, his outstretched hand just missing her.

They were noisy and they were human in the late afternoon.

They may well have been the last two alive.

But they didn't care.

* * *

_I'll walk right out into a brand new day_

_Insane and rising in my own weird way_

_I don't wanna be the bad guy_

_I don't wanna do your sleepwalk dance anymore._

* * *

Wesker could only watch.

He wasn't like Chris.

He wasn't invited.

What an odd thing. To feel pain.

* * *

_I just wanna feel some sunshine_

_I just wanna find someplace to be alone_

_Yeah... watch the world die._

* * *

"Do you know what it is?" She held the shell out to him.

Chris inspected it. "Sure. An alphabet wheedle." Handed it back.

Jill stared at it.

"Lie. You just made that up." They hadn't noticed Wesker standing so close. "That's an apple murex."

Jill looked at Chris, smiling. "You ass."

Chris laughed. "... Apple murex. That's what I said."

She pinched him.

* * *

They watched an Uroborii miles out on the horizon, breaching the water and then dipping back under. Over and over.

It was a large animal. Larger than any of the land-dwelling monsters.

"It will die of starvation," Wesker said, hands clasped behind his back.

"What do they eat out there?" Chris asked, shading his eyes in the light of sunset.

"Whales, I imagine. Porpoises."

"You think there's anything left for them?"

"If there is... it's dwindling."

"Will they turn on each other?" Chris was full of questions.

"Oh yes. Definitely."

"They're doing the same thing on land then, right?"

Wesker was thoughtful. "There can't be much left to eat. Anywhere."

"I heard birds today," Jill said, her knees pulled up to her chest as she sat on the hood of the car. "That's a good sign."

The world was waking up.

Nature had undone Albert Wesker's work.

* * *

"Let's just stay here tonight."

She looked at each of them over the fire they'd built. The waves crashed behind her.

It was dark out. The last purple streak of day's end hung over the horizon.

Chris looked at Wesker.

Wesker shrugged and reclined, lying back on an elbow.

Jill couldn't recall a time when he'd been so relaxed.

There was a warmth in her when she saw him like that.

* * *

Chris was snoring in the back.

Jill had the passenger seat pushed all the way flat; she lay looking up at the night sky. There were no stars. Just a half moon.

The water glowed and hissed and rolled over itself. Alive.

Wesker shifted, sinking down. The driver's seat hugged him.

She turned her head and looked at him. Her eyes were so pale and round. He could not look back at her for fear of what she might learn about him.

Chris's iPod was on low. A mournful voice.

* * *

_Oh mama, don't leave me alone_

_With my soul shut down so tight, just like a stone-cold tomb_

_Ain't it clear when I'm near you, I'm just dying to hear you_

_Calling my name one more time…_

* * *

Chris mumbled in his sleep, turned over. Turned his back to them. Jill glanced at him.

"Are you happy?"

She hadn't expected Wesker's voice. A near whisper. She almost wondered if she'd heard him at all.

She studied his profile until it grew so uncomfortable for him that he felt he had to look at her, chase her away with his stare. She moved onto her side, faced him, curled up. Her cheek was pressed to the leather of the seat, those eyes on him, _in_ him.

"Yeah." She was thinking. "I shouldn't be. I should hate you." Another pause. "I hate you."

"I have always hated you, Miss Valentine."

He tried to keep in-character, frowning when he wanted to laugh.

She smiled broadly, pulling the ball cap rim over her eyes.

* * *

_1998._

Birkin swirled the wine in the Rubbermaid sippie as he flipped through the file. "Barry Burton... sounds like a real gem..."

Wesker looked amused. "Yes. Barry. He's quite the mental giant. He's _touched_."

They laughed.

"Has a family, does he?"

"A wife. Two daughters."

"That's convenient."

"Isn't it just?" Shit-eating grin. "Built-in collateral."

"Dr. Wesker... you heartless bastard..." He leaned back, the stack of personnel files in his lap, his feet up on the lab table. "Remind me to keep you away from Sherry."

Wesker shrugged, smirking. "I could get used to this cloak-and-dagger routine. Perhaps dear old Spencer was in his right mind, tasking me with S.T.A.R.S."

"Spencer won't be in his right mind once he sees what we've done with his precious viruses." He opened another folder. "Rebecca Chambers."

Wesker grimaced. "There's something insidious about her. She gives me the creeps." He shivered, shaking her off.

Birkin looked at him. "You're so bizarre, Al. Really, you are. What about Chris Redfield?"

"Oh, he'll be the first to go."

"Will he? Says here that he was in the air force for a bit. You think he'll just roll over and die?"

"William, I am personally pledging to you that _his_ death will be the first." The fire in his eyes was alarming.

"My, my... I touched a nerve, eh?"

His nostrils flared and he shook his head, the pen scribbling, loud. "I hate Chris Redfield. Passionately."

"Why is that? Seems pretty likable. An orphan." He batted his eyes and stuck out his bottom lip in mock pity. "Raised a sister. Law enforcement. High marks. Oh, wait. Here we go - dishonorable discharge, in respect to issues with authority."

Birkin laughed, taking a sip from the plastic bottle.

"He is _trash_. He will never be more than _trash_, he can never hope to escape the essence of his _trash_iness. I'm going to put that mongrel out of his misery and send him home to hell, where he can live out eternity with his genetically challenged parents."

Birkin gasped. His eyes turned red as he tried to swallow. Wesker patted his back.

Birkin was choke-laughing.

"Is that wine in a _juice box_, you drunk?" He wrinkled that snobby nose, the one he looked down so often.

"Jesus. You are such an asshole. Annie packed it, thank you. You know what my nerves are like lately."

Wesker raised his eyebrows in agreement.

"Okay," Birkin said, clearing his throat. "Who's next... Ah. A pretty girl."

He noticed Wesker had stopped writing.

"What a _fun_ name - Jill Valentine. Very Hallmark."

No response.

"Those are quite the shoulder pads she has on, aren't they?" He examined the picture, paper-clipped to the file.

Nothing.

"What, Al? Nothing to say about Ms. Valentine? Cat got your tongue?"

Wesker watched the monitor intently, typed a command.

"She's salvageable." He said in a quiet voice.

Birkin brought his feet down, setting the file on the table between them. He was serious.

"Oh no. No no no... That can't happen, it just can't. You already have a stable of women. And this is business. You knew that going in. We needed a variety of test subjects and -"

Wesker held up a hand. "I wasn't suggesting anything. I know the situation."

"It's unfortunate. I understand, truly I do. But no one gets out, Al. No one."

"Agreed."

"We have to follow the plan."

"Yes."

Wesker was silent for the rest of the night as they worked by themselves in the lab.

* * *

As Birkin got ready to leave, he watched the man who had been his confidante, his partner, his brother, for more than half of his life.

"Make sure you shut down completely. You aren't even supposed to be in here. It'll be my ass if you get caught."

Things between them still hadn't changed, after all the years.

"This is so idiotic. I belong in the lab. I'm not a damn cop..." He ran his hands through his hair.

Birkin leaned on the doorframe. "I know. But we'll pay him back soon. He'll never see this coming."

"We shouldn't have killed Marcus." Softly. Sadly.

Birkin sighed. "Is that remorse, Al?"

"No. Of Course not." _Yes._

"Good. We don't have time for that. Later. We can have a good cry and eat our feelings later."

It was quiet except for Wesker's typing - the joke going over like a lead balloon.

"Are you going to leave soon then?"

"Yes, Willy, and I'll clean up my toys so you don't get in trouble."

Birkin smiled, almost hearing the eye roll in Wesker's voice.

It faded when he thought of their earlier conversation.

"I'm sorry, Al."

Wesker didn't look up. "For what?"

"You know... Hallmark."

Wesker just nodded and kept working, his face half-shadowed.

* * *

_Oh, so don't pay no mind to my watering eyes_

_Must be somethin' in the air that I'm breathing…_

* * *

"Are you happy, Al?"

Her nickname for him took him back, to a better time.

William Birkin, youth, something to dream for, work for, live for.

That was all over now.

There was nothing left.

Except _her_.

She was it. She was everything.

Maybe there was no such thing as a "better time".

Maybe it was all just a series of disappointments and failures, with intermittent sparks of success, randomized breaks from the agony of living.

He considered the word "happy".

He would sooner die than call himself happy.

Begrudgingly content, perhaps, but not... that other word.

"I will never be happy."

He lied.

* * *

_Yes, an' try to ignore all this blood on the floor_

_It's just this heart on my sleeve that's bleeding…_

* * *

They were quiet and listened to the music.

She sniffled, the cold ocean air making her nose numb.

"I really hate you. A lot. I can't stand you. I wouldn't miss you if you were gone."

He inhaled deeply, and then: "I wouldn't miss you either."

"I didn't mean for us to... The other night. I don't know why I did that."

Wesker touched his lips. Remembering. "It would be foolish to let it happen again. Because we hate each other."

"Right."

He nodded.

* * *

_Oh, so kiss him again_

_Just to prove to me that you can_

_And I will stand here, and burn in my skin…_

_Yes, I will stand here… and burn in my skin._

* * *

Under cover of night, she felt safer.

Her fingers brushed his, sought something more.

Abruptly, he turned the iPod off, shut himself down, pulled away.

"Good night, Jill."

* * *

But he smiled in the dark where no one could see him.

* * *

_"To spare oneself from grief at all costs can be achieved only at the price of total detachment, which excludes the ability to experience happiness."_

_- Erich Fromm_

* * *

**_Song Credits_**

_Father's Son by Fistful of Mercy_

_Santa Monica by Everclear_

_Burn by Ray LaMontagne_


	24. Chapter 24

_"No great genius has ever existed without some touch of madness."_

_ - Aristotle _

* * *

Someone shook her arm, but what really woke her up was a hand clasped over her mouth.

It felt like suffocating.

* * *

_"Shhhh."_

He was back to the state they had found him in. Stray dog, whipped and hurting.

His eyes shimmered. He was hysterical.

"Shhh, Jilly. They're coming. Hush now - not a word or they'll hear you." He whispered, but he wasn't looking at her; he was telling himself. "...They'll come and they'll get you and take you and tear you apart..."

She pulled at his hand and he let go. She didn't meet the resistance she expected. He was transfixed with the shapes on the horizon.

Jill turned, but the driver's seat of the Aston Martin was empty. She panicked.

"Chris, where's Wesker?"

"They'll rip your guts out, Jilly. That's what they do. You gotta be careful." He seemed to be in a trance, staring at the silhouette approaching.

She turned, took him by the shoulders. Her voice was scratchy. "Where the fuck is Wesker?"

Chris snapped out of it, for barely a second. But then confusion, hurt and anger mixed back in as he asked, "Why would you care?"

She let go of him then, climbing out of the car. Wesker was gone. She briefly debated if he was really gone, if last night had been all it took to make him abandon them.

Was this how the story ended then?

Set free from one monster only to give in to another?

Weren't happy endings supposed to feel better?

* * *

_September 8, 2008._

Leon Kennedy walked against the wind. Chilly D.C. evening.

He found Chris sitting on a leather couch inside the dark little cafe, nursing a bottle of Guinness - naturally. He shook his head as he walked up, the fur-trimmed bomber pulled up around his jaw.

_Some things_, he thought to himself, _will never change..._

"Hey."

Chris looked up, taking a swig. Leon was pleasantly surprised to see that his soon-to-be brother-in-law wasn't even fuzzy yet.

Chris nodded to the couch across from him.

Leon stuck his cold hands in his pockets and sat down.

"You want anything? A drink? Dessert?" Chris asked. Leon glanced at the manilla folder on the coffee table.

"Nah. We just ate."

Chris controlled a violent reaction to Leon's use of the word "we". His little sister could never be part of a "we", in his mind. "We" suggested that something was going on.

_We_ are in love. _We_ live together. _We_ have lots of deviant sex. Chris nearly vomited.

"How's my sister?"

Leon shrugged. "She's good. Getting all that wedding stuff done. She's excited." He paused. "She's still pissed you hit her in the face, if that's what you're asking."

He didn't even flinch at the accusation. "It was an accident."

"Listen, Chris. I think it's time we talked about the party. We were both pretty out of control. You had a lot to drink, and I - "

"Well, I think it's time you explained _this_."

The manilla folder was tossed into his lap.

Leon hesitated and then opened it.

His face was blank as he paged slowly through the 8x11's.

Pictures of him... cuddling _her_ in a bar... walking down a sidewalk, arm in arm... standing in a hotel lobby. The last was taken only two weekends before.

When he finished, he closed the folder and set it back on the table.

He looked up, thinking. "What do you want? You want me tell her? Is that it? Break her heart so that you can be right about me?"

Chris sat back, sinking into the couch. He took another sip of his beer.

"What, Chris? What the fuck do you want me to do?"

He smirked. "I think telling Claire that you're still screwing this..." He pulled a piece of paper out of the stack, searching for the name. "Ada Wong, is a mistake."

"Stop your goddamn playing and tell me what you're going to do." Hissed through his teeth, every word sharp.

"I want you to set something up for me. I need to meet her."

Leon smiled then, barely able to believe he could ever have been so careless. "Why, Chris? Why would you need to meet Ada?"

Chris rubbed his nose. He reached into the laptop bag beside the coffee table and pulled out another folder. He handed it over.

Leon wasn't prepared for that.

"Oh God, Ada. What have you done..." he murmured as he paged through the photos.

"My guy did some research. Your piece of side ass was his too. She didn't just work for him, Kennedy. Unless... straddling your boss's lap is in the job description." He turned the picture on its side, his eyebrows furrowing as he examined it.

Leon's shoulders sagged. "He's been dead since 2006, Chris. And this was taken in 2003." He gestured at the date in the corner of the glossy. "That and it's so pixelated, how can you even tell if it's him? It's over. It's all over."

"You're wrong. I'm working on something. Could be big."

"Dude, you aren't working on anything. They fucking fired you, remember?" He was growing impatient, his voice rising.

"I'm going to make an offer to the BSAA. Try and get back in. You're gonna be my reference. And I expect a glowing recommendation." Leon glared at him. "Or I could... stop by your place tonight. Leave these off with Claire."

"You're fucking unbelievable."

"Make it happen, Kennedy."

Leon felt the walls cave in. He pulled his phone from his back pocket, reluctant. Finally, he looked at Chris.

"I'll take that drink now."

* * *

_Shit._

Chris was useless in the back. He was mumbling partly to her, partly to himself. And to Claire. She knew she couldn't get him back from where ever he was at the moment.

She was on her own. She was on her own for the first time in so many years, and she was afraid.

"Come on... come on..."

The engine kept trying to turn over.

Wouldn't start.

The Uroborii kept approaching. There were two of them. Wesker had lost against one. What could Jill Valentine do against two?

"_Fuck!_"

* * *

In the backseat, Chris rocked back and forth to a memory that was too real to have happened.

_He hugged Claire closely, a protective big brother. _

_He could hear Uroboros outside. _

_It had picked up his trail earlier._

_He'd led it straight to her._

_He kissed her forehead. She was still in his arms. She trusted her big brother._

_Until the monster came to claim her._

_And he gave her away, coward that he was, in exchange for his own life._

* * *

_September 12, 2008._

"Leon... I thought I told you I'm not into threesomes..."

She stood in the doorway, Chris's gun in her face, Leon leaning against the hotel dresser.

"That's cute. Take a seat. And keep your hands where I can see them." Chris smiled, motioning to the bed.

"Really, Leon? You set me up?" She studied Chris's face.

"Sit down, Ada. Just do what he says." He couldn't look at her.

Relenting, she perched on the edge of the cheap mattress, crossed her legs.

"They look alike, don't they, Lee?" She referred to Chris and Claire, seeing the Redfield Resemblance immediately.

She picked her nails and tried to look bored. "So what is it that I can help you with?"

"Where's Wesker?"

Leon shook his head, personally humiliated for Chris's obsession.

"He's dead, Mr. Redfield. You know that." Her voice was flat.

He leant in close to her, inches from her face. "Actually, I don't know that, Ms. Wong. Because that _motherfucker_ got up and walked away after being impaled. _Impaled_. A fucking arm through his chest." The barrel of the gun was positioned over her heart, touching her.

"Chris-" Leon pleaded.

"I think it's time you made a decision, Leon."

"She's dead, Chris! Jill's gone!"

"My _sister_ - "

"Let her go, man! Jesus Christ, let her go!"

"... or _her_. Your choice."

The room was silent.

Ada looked past the man with the gun, at the mirror across from the bed, heard her lover's heavy breathing, felt the pain between them.

One trying desperately to live for the future, the other trying desperately to live in the past.

"Just go, Leon," she said, making the decision for him. It was easier that way - she couldn't bear to hear him say it out loud.

The men stared at each other, Chris's expression smug.

"Don't show your face at our wedding, Chris. I don't want you anywhere near Claire. You're sick. You're fucked up."

Leon stormed out.

Ada would have to take care of herself.

She always did.

* * *

By the time she gave up on the car, she saw _him_.

She had searched for him everywhere. But she did not expect to see him coming from the ocean.

It was low tide. A trick of the eye.

Still, it looked as if he was walking on water.

It made her shiver.

She did everything but throw herself at his feet as the mist rolled in from the Pacific Ocean.

He jerked the keys from her hand, ushered her into the passenger's seat and started the car. The engine purred in compliance.

Chris had fallen quiet. Uroboros was of no interest to him anymore. He was staring at Wesker, as if he was trying to rationalize how a man could walk on water. Or how he had the cruelty to take their false freedom away.

Jill was silent. Pulling the hoodie on, she sank back into her seat and watched the monsters fade away in the distance.

* * *

_November 11, 2008._

She peered through the scope, lining up the rifle where the target would be at exactly o-nine-43.

Two clicks to the left.

She eased back to the scope, checked and re-checked.

The phone ringing made her jump, disturbing the weapon so that she'd have to realign it again.

She cursed.

"Ada Wong." Answered curtly.

"I got a tip."

She put the phone in her lap, gathering her patience, then brought it back to her ear. "Mr. Redfield. At our last meeting, when you held me _against my will_ in a hotel room, I thought I made myself clear: Albert Wesker is dead."

"We made a deal, Ada."

Indeed they had. Chris knew things. He knew things about her activities. _Damning_ things. She was a wanted woman, and Chris Redfield had turned himself into a loose end that could not be so easily disposed of. He was back in the BSAA and would be missed if an... _accident_ befell him.

As such, business with him was a necessary evil.

And he had been right about one thing: Wesker _was_ alive - she knew that much, despite the silence from his camp. There was a rumbling on the grapevine about a certain woman as well... a tale of Lazarus proportions.

Maybe he'd finally gotten that resurrection schtick right.

She didn't tell Chris about any of that though. She wanted to see what Wesker could offer her.

Ada's allegiance would go to the highest bidder, as it always had.

"Alright, Mr. Redfield... What have you got?"

"There's been a sighting. In Eastern Europe."

And she knew exactly where in Eastern Europe to find Albert Wesker.

* * *

_Romania. November 15, 2008._

When she was sure Wesker was long gone, she walked out of the old spa.

Her heels clicked furiously on the cobblestones of the old Romanian alley.

She lifted the Blackberry out of the couture bag and dialed a number.

Wesker was uninterested in what she had to offer.

"Mr. Redfield, I have some exciting news..."

Chris though, was a different story.

"I strongly suggest you look into Ms. Gionne's extracurricular activities. She won't disappoint, I can assure you..."

She thought of Wesker - naked and wet in the light of a hundred candles - turning his back on her. She remembered Leon, leaving her to the devices of the angry Redfield.

"No, I don't know anything about your partner." A pause.

"I have a suggestion for your next vacation though - Kijuju, Africa. I hear it's lovely this time of year. An old friend of ours has a place there. He visits..._ often_."

She listened as he replied, and added, "I like you, Mr. Redfield. In fact, I like you so much I'm going to put you in touch with a man named HUNK. I would heed his advice, whatever it may be."

She heard Chris scratching down notes.

"Good luck, Mr. Redfield." And she hung up.

Ada smiled, deep red lips, and thought on the phrase _Hell hath no fury..._

* * *

"Fuck!"

She'd hung up without leaving him anything concrete.

"_Bitch._" He cursed.

The phone vibrated almost as soon as he set it down.

A private number.

It buzzed loudly and for reasons unknown, Chris was afraid. He was afraid to answer.

The idea that he might be in over his head crept up.

These people he was dealing with were as treacherous as Wesker.

He was just a midwest boy who'd stumbled his way through the air force for a couple of years, did time as a beat cop, got caught up in Wesker's maniacal plans... but for the most part, he felt unchanged.

These people were professional villains. God knew he was only a part-time hero.

He answered slowly. "...Redfield."

"You're lucky. Our mutual friend called in a favor. I'm in town for 43 hours. Name the place."

Chris hesitated.

"Mr. Redfield?"

"Yeah, I'm here. I'll meet you at... Dan's Cafe. 18th Northwest. 12 tonight."

A click and then the line went dead.

Chris held the phone in his hands and prayed.

* * *

He looked from face to face.

A couple in the corner. A few Feds at the bar. An old man in a janitor's uniform at a hightop.

He slid into a booth on the wall near the door and waited.

Chris Cornell's voice wailed on loudly from the jukebox through the cheap stereo system.

His foot tapped wildly under the table.

He was sweating.

A hand on his shoulder.

He jumped and turned, going to the holster on his hip.

"I hate D.C. traffic." The strange man walked around the booth, took the seat opposite him.

He was tall, average build. Short messy hair. Late 50's, maybe early 60's.

Dead eyes.

"You're a big bastard, aren't you?" He asked.

Chris heard the click of a gun being cocked.

Under the table.

"You'll have to excuse my manners. Ada said I could trust you... but it is Ada, after all..."

"You're HUNK?"

"The one and only."

"She said I'd wanna talk to you about Wesker."

HUNK nodded.

"Why would you help me?" Suspicion.

"I've left it all behind, Mr. Redfield. I'm working off the grid now." He smiled, long white teeth. "_Freelance_, if you will."

Chris thought of his nickname - Mr. Death. The urge to run was strong.

But then he thought of Jill plunging to her watery grave...

"I plan to stop him." Resolute. Firm.

"I gathered as much," said Mr. Death.

* * *

"I was only out on the sandbar, Jill. I could see you the entire time. You should calm yourself."

"No, Wesker. You don't understand. He was talking to his dead sister, he had his hand over my mouth, I couldn't breathe. There were guns in the car. Who knows what he would have done."

They were shoulder to shoulder in the lab, whispering.

They stopped when they heard Chris drop something in the shower. He swore.

"You believe he would have harmed you? Truly? Chris Redfield?"

She looked at him, wide-eyed. "Excuse me? Were you there when he had a sawed-off in my face? Do you remember any of that? He attacked you too!"

Wesker rubbed his eyes. "He has post traumatic stress disorder, Jill. Any trigger he sees or hears... or smells even, will send him back into survival mode."

"I know that! You think I don't have my days, Wesker? Fuck, we _all _do."

"So what do you propose we do with our fallen hero?"

"I think you should give him the p30."

Wesker narrowed his eyes. "No."

"Why? I didn't even have a detox period. You saw me - I was fine when I went off."

But Jill had, in fact, experienced severe withdrawal symptoms when he'd begun placebo injections, years ago. She'd had typical physical reactions - sweating, shaking, petite mal seizures on a few occasions. She became manic with great and sudden descents into depression, and eventually, she was so suicidal that he'd had to restrain her.

Wesker remembered the gaping slashes on her arms, the blood on the floor, sewing her up like a broken doll whose stuffing had been pulled all out.

"No, Jill. No p30. It's too risky. I disposed of it all anyway."

"So just make some more."

He glared at her, inches from her face. "The answer is _no_."

"Then what? Huh? You're just gonna let him keep hallucinating? I'm not going to sleep with him when he's like that, Al. So fix him... or no sperm."

Wesker's face was stoney.

"And I _know_ you need more. You can't figure it out - all that DNA shit. You botched it."

"What would you know?" He stood then, towered over her.

"I know that your lab buddy did the work for both of you. And when he was dead, you used Excella to do it all."

Wesker opened his mouth to speak. But he was silent.

Jill frowned, having gone too far. Again. "I mean... I just want him to be better."

He was already walking away from her.

"Al. Come on."

He held up a hand. "I'll handle it on the next trip in."

Jill sighed.

* * *

"He was born Jóska Vladescu. Roma family. Gypsy. Wealthy by Romanian standards, but that's subjective of course." He cracked a peanut with the fingers that didn't have a gun trained on Chris. "Spencer took him off their hands."

"Ozwell Spencer?"

"That would be him."

"He _bought_ Wesker?"

"Yes. He offered, and his parents bit. Wanted to send him off to America to be a star."

"How old was he when Spencer..."

"About four years, I believe."

Chris sat back. "Wow."

"Yeah... a suckling babe... but don't feel too bad. He was a nasty little sonovabitch even then."

Chris sighed, taking it in. He'd known so little of Wesker's past. "Why would Spencer want... what was so special about him at _four_?"

"He was a prodigious savant. Eidetic memory. It's a very rare condition. Maybe 100 documented cases in recorded history."

"So he's a genius?"

"Oh, more than that, kid. Way more. He can't be charted. He literally breaks the aptitude tests."

Chris waited as HUNK ate another stale peanut.

"Out of all of us, he was the smartest, the fastest... the cruelest. His cerebellum streamlines information, you see, creates mnemonic devices, supernaturally fast."

He chewed noisily, then continued.

"He hasn't got the ability to block out _any_ sensory input. No filter. Everything gets in and he uses all of it - to his advantage of course. Add that to the fact that he's a raging sociopath and... That shit he took in Raccoon just made it worse. Might be what drove him over the edge."

HUNK shook his head.

"But Albie was a monster before he ever started pumping himself full of their poison." He paused, looking Chris up and down. "What's all this interest about? You shouldn't concerned with a man like Albert Wesker."

Chris's fingers tapped on the woodgrain. "He murdered my partner."

"Ahhh... revenge. Well, get in line. He has quite a following."

Chris chewed on his lip, lost in thought.

"It's a fool's errand, Mr. Redfield. Trying to kill him."

Chris didn't reply.

"I would know. He's my little brother."

* * *

Chris's head was reeling. "13 _Weskers_?"

HUNK chuckled. "Well, now we're two. He terminated the others. They weren't all like us. Most of them were good people."

"But you don't... even _look_ like him."

"We aren't related, Mr. Redfield. Try to keep up." Smiling. "We were chosen. The Wesker Children."

Chris ran his hand over his face. "Let me... okay. So, Spencer went around the world. Found a dozen -"

"13."

"Found 13 kids. Bought them and brought them back to the U.S. where he could perform experiments on them and create a master race. And then Wesker... Albert Wesker assassinated them all."

"In a nutshell." Poignantly, he cracked another peanut.

"Jesus... fucking Umbrella..."

"Oh, don't be so hard on Umbrella. They didn't engineer him to be evil, Mr. Redfield. He was born that way."

Chris looked up, remembering the danger of his present company. "Are you with him?"

"Albie? No. It's been a while since we've crossed paths. I led the team that took down Birkin. He's had it out for me ever since. Best buddies, they were."

"Wesker tried to kill you too?"

"Of course," HUNK said. "Many times."

The jukebox clicked, silence in the bar. Then _Bad Moon Rising_ played.

"He's in Africa."

"So I've heard. Got mixed up in Tricell. That's a scary thought."

"Do you know what he's doing over there?"

HUNK shook his head. "Tricell has steak in the study of a "zombie drug". Used by some tribes thereabouts. _Scopolamine_, I think. Derived from a plant - a flower."

"Doesn't he ever get sick of that undead shit?" Chris took notes - arrows and scribbling and circled words.

"I'm sure it's just a cover for whatever the hell else he's got going on. You know Albie..."

HUNK watched Chris. He saw the Wesker family tree Chris had constructed on the napkin, saw the anguish and desperation that hung like a black cloud over the young man's head.

Pity wasn't HUNK's favorite thing. But he felt compelled to say something in parting, dole out some kind of advice. "You're out of your league, Mr. Redfield. Do yourself a favor: let your dead partner go. And keep clear of him."

He slid out of the booth, the gun hidden.

"I won't let him get away again." Chris's voice changed. He sounded different.

Hellish.

HUNK pulled on his leather jacket. "It'll be the death of you, boy. If there's anyone harder to kill than me, it's Albert Wesker."

Chris measured him again. He didn't look so fierce, didn't look like he deserved the title Mr. Death anymore than himself. "Can I ask your name?"

"Umbrella called me Alex."

"And what does that other one mean - HUNK?"

The old warrior threw a couple of dollar bills on the table, shoved the wallet back in his jeans.

He looked at Chris. "Albie went berserk, started knockin' us off. He couldn't nail me down though. Took to calling me _His Undefeated Next of Kin_."

* * *

Chris dropped the canvas grocery bag on the table, mumbled a greeting at Jill and went to their room.

His mood was Wesker's fault, no doubt.

"What did you do to him?" Jill asked when they were alone.

Wesker shrugged. "Nothing. We just visited the store... and the pharmacy..."

But when he was sure they were out of earshot, he gave her a telling nod.

"You got him something?" She asked, afraid to be hopeful.

"Zoloft. I told you I'd take care of it."

Jill was skeptical. "And how'd you manage that, Al?"

"I told him the truth."

"... Which is?"

"The truth being you are afraid of him and you are pulling the plug on -" Wesker paused to grimace. "On your sex life."

She winced. "Was he mad?"

"Not so much angry as mortified."

"Did he mention his sister?"

"Yes. It seems Claire only makes appearances. She is a transient apparition, not a constant companion. That's promising at least."

"Poor Chris."

"Indeed." He looked at the spreadsheet in front of her. Raised a pale eyebrow. "Electricity usage went down."

"Yeah."

"That's good."

"Let's run the numbers."

"Affirmative."

And they went about their day while Chris Redfield wrestled with the ghosts that wouldn't be quiet.

* * *

_"To have no heroes is to have no aspiration, to live on the momentum of the past, to be thrown back on routine, sensuality, and the narrow self."_

_ - Charles Horton Cooley_


	25. Chapter 25

"_Sometimes I cannot sleep. Sometimes Shotwell cannot sleep. Sometimes when Shotwell cradles me in his arms and rocks me to sleep, singing Brahms' "Guten Abend, gute Nacht," or I cradle Shotwell in my arms and rock him to sleep, singing, I understand what it is Shotwell wishes me to do..."_

_- __Game__, by Donald Barthelme_

* * *

"War."

Jill and Chris put down three cards in a row, flipping the fourth so that it faced up.

She took that hand.

They continued to put down one card at a time, Jill taking most of the pile.

Music played on in the background.

Wesker thought about how much _noisier_ the bunker had gotten with Chris around.

He pretended to be bothered by it.

_(He wasn't)_.

"I win." Jill.

Chris gathered the cards in a messy pile, smearing them around rather than shuffling them.

_Typical Redfield_, Wesker thought.

"You wanna play, Cap'n?" He asked.

He _asked_. Almost without sarcasm.

The Zoloft had mellowed him out.

A lot.

Wesker looked up from the microscope. "No."

"What are you doing over there anyway?"

"Creating life."

Chris grunted. "Oh. Right. I forgot."

"You scoff. But I am going to repopulate this waste planet."

"Of course you are..." He smiled.

"Would you like to see?" Wesker smiled back - only more sinister.

Chris went to the work station, suspicious. Wesker gestured to the microscope, scooting back in the chair to give him room.

"Jesus Christ!" He jumped back.

Wesker laughed.

"Is that your fucking jizz?" Chris was furious and embarrassed. "Jesus."

"Perhaps." (It was actually Chris's sperm).

He backed away, glaring.

Jill dealt the cards.

They flipped through a few rounds.

"War."

* * *

_It was a dangerous game they played in the dark of his room._

_There was one rule for their game: complete silence._

_Some nights, it was a very hard game to play._

* * *

It started out as all of those kinds of things do.

Innocuous. Decent. Small.

"Can I sleep in your bunk? Please?"

They hadn't spoken much since she'd kissed him, since they'd acknowledged it on the beach. He found he had nothing to say, too much to say; too much time and somehow not enough.

Hearing her voice, addressing him, was startling.

She stood in the hallway, the sound of Chris's snoring carrying throughout the hatch.

She had told him before that she would have gnawed off her own arm to get away from the noise.

Wesker glanced up, nodded, turned the page in his book.

He rarely slept anyway.

* * *

The next day, when she was gone from the bunk, he could smell her.

She was on _everything_.

She was _everywhere_.

* * *

The scenario repeated itself for a week.

She would creep across the hall to the bathroom after doing whatever vile things she did with Chris, leave him the warm cup on the counter, and crawl back to bed. When Chris's snoring became too much, she would pussyfoot out into the hallway and ask in a husky voice to sleep in his bunk.

Then she would leave every possession he had with the perfume of her scent.

* * *

"What do you wanna play?"

"I dunno... Go Fish?" Jill shrugged.

Chris nodded.

Handed the deck to Wesker.

"You shuffle."

So he did, looking as bored as possible.

"Seven cards each," Chris ordered.

Wesker obliged him.

"You know the rules, Cap'n? Oh wait. You won't play by them anyway."

Jill rolled her eyes.

"You are just full of jokes, aren't you, Chris?" Wesker smiled, rearranging his own hand so that it fanned out in order.

"So... the point is... to get all four suits of the same card. Then you can lay it down. Once your entire hand is gone..." Chris kept pausing as he moved cards around. "You win."

Wesker nodded.

"If you need like, say, a three - if that's what you're collecting - you ask either me or Chris for the card. And if we have any, we have to give them to you." Jill continued.

"And it works the same way, Wesker. If we ask you, you can't hold out." Chris added, glaring.

Wesker put a hand over his heart, furrowed his brow, mock pain. "I am deeply offended that you think I would hold out on either of you."

"Whatever. So if we don't have the card, we'll tell you to "go fish". You'll pull a card from the deck there and then your turn is over if you can't lay down." Jill ignored them both.

"Sounds ridiculously simple." Wesker sighed. "Dealer goes first."

"That's new," Chris muttered.

"Ms. Valentine, have you any queens in your possession?"

"Why yes, Captain, I do..."

* * *

It was bound to happen, he supposed.

For a few nights, she did not come out to the lab with her bare feet and sleepy questions.

He thought it safe.

He was drifting in and out of a dream (_rare_) when the door opened.

He held his breath. It was _her_.

She approached the bed, felt it with her hand in dark.

The heat of his body made her snatch her arm back.

"Jesus Christ! You're in here! Why didn't you say something?" she whispered.

* * *

He thought she would leave then.

She did not.

She thought he would tell her to leave.

He did not.

* * *

That first night, they dared not breathe.

They lie on their backs next to each other, the bed unbearably small.

Neither slept. Neither moved.

No touching. Paralyzed. Silent.

They were so still they could feel their own pulses, hear themselves blink.

All night.

* * *

Of course, they didn't mention it the next day.

Chris noticed the way they avoided one another.

"You have a fight with the Prince of Assholes?"

She took the pencil out of his hand, filled in the last word of the puzzle.

"Yeah. Something like that."

Chris looked at the crossword. "Oh man. I couldn't get that one."

_Yearning_.

* * *

Jill was laughing hysterically.

He could hear her from the lab.

"Alright. Okay. Ask, um, a question about how he died."

Chris thought for a second, his fingers perched on the viewer.

Wesker interrupted them. "Is that really what you needed to run to town for?"

"_Yeah_. _ Hello_. It's awesome," Chris said, turning around, his hands still on the Ouija board.

"You wanna join?" Jill looked up at him from where she was sitting, cross-legged, on the bunker floor.

"We're talking to 'Ted'." She used her fingers to quote.

Wesker had a bottle of Febreeze in his hands. He fidgeted, playing with it. "No."

"Oh, come on, Grampa." Chris patted the cement. "It'll be fun."

"You don't want me to touch that, truly."

Jill scowled. "Why? You don't believe in this shit. It's fake."

"You're mistaken. It is most definitely _real_." He looked almost nervous.

Wesker. _Nervous_.

"Really?" She was smiling at him, unbelieving.

"Okay, Hoss. Make it work then. Let's see." Chris challenged.

He dropped the Febreeze in Chris's lap and knelt on the cold floor.

He hesitated, thoughtful. Then he reached out slowly, his fingertips barely grazing the viewer.

It darted across the board, then back, then to all four corners - possessed.

He wasn't even touching it anymore.

The board flipped itself wildly - ending their fun.

Jill had backed up, cowering. Chris flung himself against the wall.

The room was silent.

"Oh my God." She whispered.

"Holy shit." Chris was awed.

They all looked at each other.

"I was never any good in seances," Wesker said, standing. He brushed his knees off. "I attract the wrong kind of... spiritual attention."

* * *

He was surprised that she came back every night.

But then he wasn't surprised.

Was it spite that drove her to this awkwardness?

Was it fear - was he something that had to be conquered? A dare?

They both so loved to play games.

* * *

The cold of the night sank through the ground, sank into her bones, froze her marrow.

She let herself thaw, curled around him, her face pressed between the blades of his shoulders.

* * *

There was a morning routine.

She woke up before Chris, leaving Wesker.

She brushed her teeth, pulled her hair back, and examined herself in the mirror.

He knew she was adjusting her mask for the other man. She'd let it slip while she lie next to his enemy all night.

He would lean back on an elbow and watch her from across the hall, the bunks door ajar. Reptilian eyes on her every move.

She would always look at him one last time.

And then she would take her place with the other man.

Chris slept through his rival climbing into bed with them, lying between them, stealing her away.

He was blind. _A blind arrogant fool._

* * *

The first time she put her hands on him as they lay together, he imagined crawling out of his skin.

No one had ever touched him as if he would break.

They had no reason to. He had not deserved such courtesy.

But Jill, who found the light even in _him_, was different.

She followed the curve of his spine, the muscles on either side.

She followed his arm, her thumb rubbed over the rough skin of his elbow, to the inside and down to the wrist.

She followed the length of each finger, memorizing the knuckles that had broken and mended when he was mortal, knowing the calluses from the weapons he held, taking in how his middle finger was bent from writing.

He felt overwhelmed by her gentleness. He felt she would try to _change_ him with it.

Some sort of magic.

Her hand caught in his, stilled.

_No more, Jill._

_No more for tonight._

No one had ever touched him as if he would break, except her.

* * *

She taught him how to touch her without using words.

He learned through the sound of deep breaths, quick breaths, an arch. She showed him how to pleasure her in this way.

She liked when he ran his hand up the back of her thigh, to the inside of her thigh, stopping just short, as she lie on her stomach.

She liked the way he lay his head on her back and listened to her breathe and _live_, listened to rustle of sheets. His hand reached down, absently stroking behind her knee.

She liked best of all the feel of his mouth on her.

It was wrong and sick, she knew. He was evil and relentless and manipulative.

But she _liked_ that he was wicked and fierce; she _liked_ that he could tear her apart if he so pleased.

It was knowing that he chose _not_ to which appealed to her.

* * *

_It was a dangerous game they played with Chris._

_There was one rule for that game as well: Never talk about what happened when she and Chris were together, with the door closed, the lights off._

_Sometimes, that game was the hardest for Wesker to play._

* * *

Their days were spent forgetting and hating what they did at night, their weakness for touch.

Their days were spent counting the minutes until Chris fell asleep.

During the day, they argued and tried to stay sane and were separate.

But in his bed, there was no room for that struggle.

They understood so much more in the absence of voice.

* * *

"Jill?"

She looked up from her book. "Yeah?"

"Ever think about what would have become of you if this all hadn't happened?"

"What do you mean? The end of the world?"

"I mean Raccoon City."

Without being noticed, Wesker raised his eyebrows. A fairly deep question for a meathead.

"Oh." She thought about it. She put the book down. "I guess I would have stayed with STARS."

"Raccoon City doesn't exist," Chris said. "So STARS doesn't, either."

"Oh. Like, Raccoon _itself_ didn't exist." Jill said. "Then maybe I would have lied my way into something fancy, like SWAT."

Wesker snorted. They looked at him, but he pretended to be consumed by other things.

"And family?"

She chuckled at the thought. "Maybe something fancy like family, too. What about you?"

He shrugged. "I don't know."

She prodded. "Let's have it, Chris."

He yielded. "I guess, I dunno... settle down, find a girl, get a dog and win the lottery."

They both laughed.

Chris turned to Wesker. "Hey, old man. What would you have done?"

Wesker stared into the microscope. "What would I have done if what?"

"If you hadn't bombed the world with your shit-virus."

Wesker looked up, blinking hard against the fluorescent lighting.

"Well, Chris, I can't be sure of course, but I probably would have... bombed the world with my shit-virus." He smiled, nasty.

Chris flicked him off. With both middle fingers.

* * *

Some nights were desperate.

Wesker wanted to rip her open and crawl inside.

She had the good sense those nights to let him be what he was.

His hand on her throat, testing.

He would grab her, pull her to him, smell her, teeth gritted.

Always, he could feel _the other man_ on her. It drove him nearly to madness.

But then she would sigh, or try to stifle a moan deep inside, and he would kiss her as vicious as he had ever wanted to.

She would go limp in his arms and he loved her for it - for her portrayal of the victim.

Other times, she was angry and vengeful.

He knew she wanted to kill him.

He had the good sense those nights to let her be what she was.

Her sharp little teeth cutting into his skin, her claw-fingers underneath his shirt, raking down his sides, his back.

She would grind herself against him, force herself into him, and punish him.

She would bite his lips, easing up only when she tasted his blood and he loved her for it - for her portrayal of the villain.

This was the result of years of denial.

The stakes went up every time they played the game in the dark.

* * *

He lost control one night when his mouth was on hers, when they were tangled and aching and fighting.

He broke both rules.

"Does he still fuck you like that, Jill? Like a _dog_?"

She stopped and then yanked when his grasp tightened.

He did not let her go.

"Can he look at you, when you go to him?"

She twisted and fought, her ragged breathing like thunder in the room.

He felt her hips roll.

When he did let her go, she ran from him.

He realized then that he was capable of nothing more than cruelty and offensiveness.

He had written himself as the Beast.

He could not be unwritten.

* * *

From that night, the days were filled with her false kindness. She helped him, she smiled, she laughed her fake laugh.

They all played such games.

Chris began to take naps in the afternoon, while she dozed off in a chair, as he toiled with the creation of life.

The nights were especially long without her.

He would wait for her, his ear to the thin wall that separated their bunks.

All he could hear was the movement of bodies on sheets, _sighs_.

All he could hear were the nights _without _Chris's snoring.

He thought of the games she was playing in the dark of the other man's room.

* * *

She unwound her hair from the towel.

He had come into the bathroom, shut the door quietly, stared at her in the mirror.

She said nothing.

He watched her for some time.

"I am exhausted," he said.

She brushed out the tangles.

"I do not sleep, Jill."

She worked on a knot at the end.

"You will come to me tonight. I've had enough of this game."

She ignored him, hung up towels, wiped down the counter top.

She opened the door.

"Please," he said.

* * *

The word was rusty in his mouth. It left a metallic taste in the back of his throat.

He had no purpose for it in decades.

He had said it almost hatefully.

And _she_ had pretended not to hear him use the word that cut his tongue.

The forbidden word which threatened to bleed him dry.

_Please._

* * *

"Five-thousand dollars?"

"Yeah. It's a big bet game. You got a problem with that?"

"Chris, you are aware money is worthless, correct?"

Chris stopped mixing the cards with his patented smear technique, feigned shock.

"And guess who's responsible for that, asshole. You gonna play now, or what?"

Wesker sat down.

He patted his pockets, dramatic. "It seems I don't have five-thousand dollars on me. Strange."

Chris thought about that for a minute.

"Your sunglasses."

Silence.

"Excuse me?"

"Your sunglasses. Bet your sunglasses."

"No."

Chris narrowed his eyes.

"Don't be a coward now, Captain. Bet the fucking shades."

* * *

Three hours later, they had long since passed bets like golf sets, Dolby surround sound systems or whatever else Walmart could offer.

Poker had become a disguise for all those things that had been lost and could never be taken back again.

They played for the lives left at Arklay. For their old friends and the sacrifices they made. For a past they all yearned for, but could not go back to.

Although in the end Chris did not win back his dead sister's life, his lost and brainwashed girlfriend or his former existence, he beat the hell out of Albert Wesker at a round of high-stakes poker.

And in a world where everything else had stopped mattering, a pair of sunglasses meant a lot more than all the money in the pot.

* * *

On poker night, she went to bed with Chris, left Wesker in the lab.

An hour later, she came out, came back to him in her T-shirt and bare feet.

She walked to him and he looked up at her, tried to soften the eyes he knew were alarming.

He had never tried to soften for anyone before.

She brought a hand to his cheek, ran her thumb over his bottom lip.

And then she slapped him. _Twice_.

Hard, stinging, breath-taking slaps across the face.

He was too astounded to do anything.

* * *

In his bunk, in the suffocating heat, in the humid air between them, he stripped off his shirt, his pants, leaving only the shorts he wore beneath.

She sat on the edge of the bed, fully clothed and waiting, staring at him in the dim light of a table lamp.

She was as unreadable as he'd ever seen her. Strange clear eyes.

He did not know what she wanted.

He knew only what he would have wanted.

* * *

He sank to his knees in front of her.

He thought of how he looked, how he would not recognize himself at that moment - his face buried in her lap, so aroused he was dripping on his own thigh, seeping through the shorts.

Shameful and wanton and wretched.

He thought of Rodin's _Eternal Idol_.

He thought of how he might burn to death of his lust - burn until there was nothing left.

"_Please."_

He said the forbidden word over and over - until it didn't rasp his throat, until it lost its power to make him weak.

Until he meant it.

* * *

She pulled off her clothes, brazen, and stood naked in front of him - defiant.

He stepped out of the shorts, his movements slow, his eyes on her - distrustful.

Half of her in shadow, he couldn't resist running a finger down her divide of light and dark.

She led the way that night, laying him down and finally taking him inside of her.

He let her.

No more games.

He gave up, gave in for her.

If only he could have years ago.

If only.

He had never touched anyone as if they would break, except for Jill Valentine.

* * *

_And our love is pastured; such a mournful sound_

_Tonight I'm gonna bury that horse in the ground_

_So I like to keep my issues strong_

_But it's always darkest before the dawn_

_- "Shake It Out"_


	26. Chapter 26

_"Three can keep a secret if two are dead."_

_ - Benjamin Franklin_

* * *

Chris hated having to piss in the middle of the night.

The cement was always so cold under his feet, the lights were always so bright, his balance was always so poor.

He'd woken up, Jill gone.

He hadn't been surprised by it really - she'd said she wasn't too tired when they'd slipped under the blanket. Maybe she'd gotten up for something to eat.

He heard her voice then, just as he was about to turn on the switch and close the door.

She was out in the lab.

He walked, slow and noiseless, down the hall, stopping just outside.

They were in there, together. Wesker working and Jill keeping him company. He wondered what they talked about when he wasn't around, what they looked like when he wasn't around.

In the shadows of the hallway, he listened and could just see them around the corner.

Jill had the little ball she'd picked up at the store. She bounced it over and over on the floor in front of her as she reclined in a rolling chair. She watched Wesker scribbling in the journal.

She bounced the ball off the table leg.

He looked up briefly, went back to his writing.

She bounced it off the arm of his chair.

"Stop that."

She smiled and bounced it on the floor again - hard this time. It hit the underside of the table and came back to her in a series of hops.

"Jill, enough."

The ball ricocheted off of his journal and then his chin.

He was a blur.

Wesker was standing over her, the offending toy in his hand, thrust in her face. He was very close to her, sneering, growling something.

Chris held his breath. He thought of the guns, locked away. He thought of how helpless he was against the monster, how helpless Jill was.

But then he noticed that she was laughing, wriggling under him.

She was _laughing_.

She mumbled something.

"Louder."

She mumbled again, laughing and reaching for the ball.

"I can't hear you, Jill."

"I'm sorry!" Smiling.

"Shhh." He straightened and turned away from her, ball in hand.

"Hey! Give it back!"

When he sat back down, she came to him. Chris's heart lurched into his throat.

Her hips swayed when she walked to Wesker. He suddenly hated the way her clothes fit - sweats too tight in the ass, tank top too revealing, flimsy sports bra - practically transparent. And when had she gotten so curvy? Her breasts seemed larger, heavier - as if everything she owned had become too snug, too suggestive, so unlike her.

It made him ill.

She didn't dress that way for comfort.

She dressed that way for _them_. For _both_ of them.

He knew he shouldn't watch but he couldn't stop.

He had to know what she was like with... _him_. What she did with the monster when he wasn't there, wasn't chaperoning.

His stomach churned and his heart beat so hard he was sure they heard it.

Jill sat on his knee. Wesker looked at her, alarmed.

"It's fine, Al. He's asleep."

Chris ground his teeth.

_Al? __This was what they did when he slept?_

Wesker pulled the ponytail out of her hair. It fell to her shoulders, waves of unnatural white. He let it slip through his fingers as he stared at her face, watched her reaction to his touch.

She leaned into him, tucked her nose under his jaw, her hand on his chest.

His left arm wound around her as he wrote, the ball rolling and then stopping on the lab table.

"Are you tired?" he asked, quiet. The pen scratched away on the page.

She nodded. "Very."

"Will you lie with me tonight or go back to him?"

"Take me to bed," she said. Casual.

His mind, racing, filled in the gaps.

_"Take me to bed, Wesker. Fuck me. Fuck me as hard as you can. Ruin me for him. He'll never know... He's a fool." _She might as well have said.

Chris turned, his face to the wall, gasping.

He retreated back to his bunk, his heart and pride limping behind him.

He heard Wesker's door shut. Through the collapsable wall, heard her whisper, heard him reply.

Then silence.

* * *

_June, 2002._

It was the evening of their reunion in Washington, D.C.

They were holed up, under a sheet, in her apartment.

Through the windows, the red sunset shone on the far wall.

Four squares of blood.

Chris's fingers traced the tattoo on her side.

He propped himself up and stared at it.

"Really, what was the story behind that one?"

He followed the circle.

She had an arm draped over her eyes. "_Really_ really?"

"Yeah."

"Wesker."

She couldn't see Chris flinch. His fingers stopped circling.

"What does it mean?"

"Eternity. He called it... _Ouroboros_, I think."

Chris stared at it. A snake, eating it's own tail. A perfect circle of self-preservation and self-loathing.

A perfectly _Wesker_ circle.

"He took you to get that one?"

She shook her head, still hiding. "I drove him home. We stopped. He drew it. After that Christmas party. Remember? You were -"

"Sick. At home. I remember."

He moved her arm to see her. She kept her eyes closed though.

"You slept with him?" It wasn't harsh, and it wasn't interrogative. It just _was_.

She was surprised he could keep such control.

Perhaps he _had_ changed.

"No. I never slept with Wesker."

"You wanted to?"

She didn't answer.

"It was just that, right? You just wanted to sleep with him? Nothing else?"

Finally, she opened her eyes. "Not really. It was deeper, I think."

He looked heartbroken. "You loved him?"

She stared up, through the sheet. "No. Well, I don't know. I was really confused. I was young. Dumb."

"How could you love him?" He asked quietly. "After everything... Think of what he did, Jill."

"And what about you? How could I love you? After what you did?" She snapped back. "You lied to me while you were living in my house. He never broke my heart. Not like _you_."

Chris moved away, hurt.

She started to get up, pulling the bed clothes around herself.

"You ever wonder what he's doing?" She asked quietly.

"I've made a fucking career out of it," he said, lying back down.

She watched the Saturday night traffic jam, standing in front of her window. "We really aren't all that different, are we?"

He looked at her, the blood-light on them as the sun sank.

Cars in the intersection below honked.

"What do you mean? Come back to bed." He patted the mattress.

She hooded herself with the sheets.

"All of us, Chris. Just a bunch of liars and cheats..."

* * *

He waited for her.

Hiding in the shadows.

Waiting for her to finish with the other man.

Wesker stopped her from shutting herself in the bathroom.

They were a tangle of limbs.

He slammed the door with his foot.

Shirts pulled over heads. Clothes kicked away.

Picked her up, she wrapped her legs around him, his mouth on hers.

She still tasted of Chris.

He didn't care.

It all ran together now.

All three of them ran together now.

She breathed hard while he had his way with her against the bathroom door.

Arms around his neck.

"What took you so long, Valentine?" He asked, face in her throat.

Teeth on her collarbone.

She sweat for him.

She would always sweat for him, no matter how cold the air conditioner ran.

"You know... why..." She whispered, between.

He slowed. Deeper. Staring into her face, into her eyes. Memorizing her in that moment.

Slower still.

Deeper.

Hold.

Again.

Again.

"Oh God, please... _please_..." Her prayers on his ears.

She let her head fall back against the door.

Her thighs tightened around his sides.

She smelled like sex with Chris.

She smelled like sex with both of them.

He didn't care.

It all ran together now.

All three of them ran together now.

* * *

Chris had never claimed to be a genius, but they were fools to take him for an idiot.

He would fall asleep with her and she would be there again when he awoke. To alabaster skin beneath his touch, to soft blonde hair resting against his cheek, to a sweet lungful of that perfume she wore.

He would stroke her back and she would open her eyes. Bright, cornflower blue.

Awake, completely, as if she hadn't slept all night.

Eyes wide, dark circles marring the skin beneath.

Kissing him, wishing him a good morning. "_So __what __did __you __do last __night, __Chris? __I __know we __were __busy. __You __had __a __good __sleep? __We __didn't __wake __you, __did __we?"_

_No, no problem, Jill. Really. Don't worry._ He'd just go on pretending not to notice them, as long as they kept pretending not to do _it_.

That way, he could keep secrets of his own.

At night.

In the lab.

The time had finally come for secrets to be uncovered.

* * *

It was a shocking sight.

The two of them. Together.

This was equally disturbing though.

He wavered, stumbled back. Held his breath as to not wake them.

Standing there, in the middle of the night, while everyone pretended that Jill lay in his arms, the time had finally come for secrets to be uncovered.

Fingers traced over cold metal, leaving imprints on the polished surface. It was heavy as he lifted it, but in perfect shape.

It was so cruel in his hands.

* * *

_April 27, 1998._

Albert Wesker pulled up. The red and blue lights blurred in the foggy night.

There were seven squad cars, parked haphazardly at the Convenient gas station.

And they were all there for Jill Valentine.

* * *

She was sitting in her Jeep, door open, giving a statement.

The officer saw him coming and wrapped up, tucking the notebook in his back pocket.

He left them alone.

Jill looked down.

"I'll need your badge and your gun, Valentine."

* * *

"If it's not one of you, it's the other." He lectured, holding the door to the little diner open.

Jill ducked in under his arm.

"Perhaps I should hire a babysitter for you both. Dock your pay for it."

She slid into the booth, paint chipped from wear.

He passed her a sticky menu. "Raccoon is so miniscule. I cannot even begin to guess how the two of you find so much trouble. You'd think you were operating in the most dangerous part of New York City."

The waitress brought him hot tea without having to take an order.

"The lady will have tea as well."

He took the menu from her hands. She hadn't even looked at it yet. But she was too exhausted to fight him.

He tore open three packets of sugar and stirred them in. "Have you always been a magnet for destruction and chaos, Jill? My God, you weren't even on duty tonight. A 211 on your night off. How in the hell did you manage that?"

He looked up then, almost as if he'd just realized she was there.

She had her face in her hands and she was sobbing silently.

He sighed, set the spoon on a folded napkin. "It was your first, I imagine."

She nodded.

"You're an officer of the law. It was bound to happen. It will happen again."

She looked at him, bloodshot eyes, blotchy face.

He sensed round two of her hysterics coming on.

"Stop blubbering and tell me about it."

* * *

"So I told him to put the weapon down. He wouldn't. He yelled something... about killing all of us once he had the cash. And... I shot him."

Wesker stirred his third cup of tea slowly.

"I watched him die." She stared out the diner window, her eyes blurring again. She wiped at them. "He was just a kid."

"He was only a year younger than you, Jill." Wesker argued. "And you saved a life tonight. That clerk owes you some thanks."

Jill shook her head.

"You know that I have to put you on administrative leave. And you must see the department psychologist before returning to work."

She sniffed, cleared her throat (a habit). "Yeah."

They were quiet. Wesker warmed his hands with the cup. Jill watched the fog rolling over the diner.

"I lived with the guilt of my first kill for a long while."

She looked at him. It was rare that Wesker volunteered any personal information.

"I questioned whether it was the right thing to have done."

Jill listened. "Was it?"

Wesker took a sip. "I can't be certain. I'll find out though."

She wasn't sure what he meant.

"It gets easier, Jill - taking lives," he said with a strange authority. "You'll realize it's done for the common good and all of that discomfort just... fades away."

Her mind raced. _Exactly __how __many __people __had __Captain __Wesker __killed?_

"Where's your friend tonight? Working long hours in that lab?" The waitress interrupted. "Y'all were lookin' pretty rough the other day."

Wesker glared at her, setting the cup down loudly. "I'll take the check please, Edna. Thank you."

Jill watched him and filed away the strange interaction.

"Are you ready?" He asked her. She nodded, wondering about his friend from "the lab".

* * *

Her car was in the driveway, dropped off by another officer. Keys under the mat at the front door.

Wesker walked her up to the stoop.

He didn't get too close though, for fear of the humiliation he'd felt before - the door shut in his face the night of Chris's (trashy) party.

Jill turned to him. He was a silhouette in the misty dark. "Thanks, Captain."

"Is Chris home?"

"No. He took Claire up to look at a college."

"You ought to stay elsewhere then. With family maybe. It's not good to be alone after something so... upsetting. I'll drive you."

"I'll be fine, sir. Really."

Inside, Chris's pitbull barked deeply.

She could almost make out Wesker's eyes, so clear and pale they were barely blue.

He nodded. "I know, Valentine. I know."

She watched him trudge across her crab grass lawn to his car.

* * *

She scrunched her hair dry with the towel.

Tried not to think about the boy at the gas station, laying in an ever-growing puddle of his own blood.

Tried not to think about Wesker's lab friend.

Failed.

_Is this "friend" another woman? How many does he have? Did that boy have a family? Can I get fired over all this? What if he wasn't going to do anything? What if I killed him and he was just bluffing? What will I tell Chris? Will I tell Chris about how fast I did it? How I didn't even think, I just shot? Will I go to hell for this? Is there a hell? What do his girlfriends call him? Albert? Who is this "friend"? What does he look like when he cums?... _

_What does he look like when he says "I love you"?_

She chastised herself for how stupid that last thought was.

Stupidest thing she ever thought. _Ever_.

_Why __do __you __even __care?_ She asked herself, disgusted.

Pulled the robe tightly together, tied it.

Walked to her bedroom window and pushed the curtain aside.

His car was still parked on the other side of the road.

He was sitting in the driver's seat.

She watched him, reading a book in the street light that streamed in his window.

He licked his thumb and turned the page.

She thought of how he would look if he was in love.

It seemed an impossibility.

It _was_ an impossibility.

But it would probably look a lot like _that_.

Jill went to sleep that night, feeling safe with Wesker outside.

She decided to let the discomfort just fade away.

* * *

_April 29, 1998._

"What'll it be for ya, sweetheart?"

Jill sat hunched over the diner's little bar.

Same waitress - just as she'd hoped.

"I'll have a bacon cheese burger platter. With a Coke. Excuse me - are you Edna?"

The old waitress smiled, popped her gum loudly. "Yeah." She held out her hand.

She shook it. "Jill. Nice to meet you. I was the one in here the other night crying."

"Oh yeah! With Captain Wesker." She frowned. "He wasn't breakin' up with ya or nothin', was he?"

Jill laughed, and then looked completely flustered. "Oh God... no. Jesus. No. No, not at all. Just had a bad night."

"Well, good. Lord knows I love him, but the Captain can be a cad, right?" She put her hand over her mouth, a brash snort-giggle. "Don't tell him I said that. He'll have me arrested."

Jill found her angle. "You mentioned though... that he had a friend."

Edna's eyes lit up. "Oh hunny - no. Not a _friend_ friend. It's just a guy he hangs around with. Told me that they've been buddies since high school."

She nodded. Threw out a name, wanting to be corrected. "Tommy?"

"Not Tommy - Will..." She thought, holding the tray on her hip. "Yeah. Will Birkin, I think. From up at the Umbrella plant. On the hill." Edna gestured out the diners windows.

Jill smiled. "Umbrella, huh?"

"Uh-huh. From what I've heard, they used to work together. But that's just me eves-droppin'. My old nosy self, overhearin' everything."

"Hmmmm." Jill was very interested now.

The waitress seemed to sense she'd made a mistake.

"Yeah, well, the Captain's a good man, dearie. He's a catch, under it all. You hold onto him, you hear? I'll put your order in." Edna winked and hurried off to a table that had just been seated.

Jill turned back to the bar, looked up at all the license plates above the cook's station.

_Will Birkin of Umbrella Pharmaceuticals. _

Very interesting indeed.

* * *

The plate almost throbbed and pounded in Chris's grip, as if it had come to life.

He imagined it would latch on to his ribs, his lungs, and search for his spirit - pull it out.

Chris placed the chest piece back, careful. The tips of his fingers tingled. He brushed them against his pants, hoping to forget how it felt to hold someone's soul in his hands.

The chest plate was not the only thing in the box. A transparent plastic bag. Locks of blonde hair. A date.

The ball chain made a clinking noise as he picked it up.

A hasty glance over the shoulder.

They were too busy pretending to be sleeping (_too __busy __fucking as quietly as possible_).

He looked at the dogtags.

VALENTINE

JILL

311131489 BSAA

B

NORELPREF

They were not clean like the chestplate. Crusty blood (type B), rusted, neglected.

He found faxes, research papers, test results. All concerning the same subject: _Jill __Valentine_. One stood out among the others. A date was circled with red ink. In the obituary column.

_03/16/2007_

Jill's funeral.

Almost a year after her fall from the Spencer Estate.

Chris had wept like a baby on the day they'd declared it was no longer a search and rescue but a recovery mission.

He wondered if Wesker had attended the service - from afar? Had he been there to mourn the girl he kept in a glass tube, hidden away from the world? It was a fucked up, unsettling thought.

Perhaps one day... he'd just ask the asshole himself.

For now, he abandoned the thought.

Because he searched for more.

And more he found.

One last thing.

A blue thong.

* * *

_June, 1998._

Jill opened the office door slowly.

"Sir?"

He was at a filing cabinet, the desk lamp in his office the only light. He turned to her, a manilla folder in his hand.

"Take a seat, Valentine."

She did, thinking of what she'd say, how she'd react.

It had been less than a week since he'd caught the the two of them having sex in the cell. He was still very unhappy.

She was waiting for a pink slip, waiting for him to have a change of heart, to fire her instead of spare her.

She was armed and ready for Albert Wesker.

"I've been reading up on you." He said.

She nodded, crossed her legs. Her uniform felt suffocating, stiff, stuffy.

"And I think Irons must have been asleep at the wheel or he was too busy staring at your ass because _you_, Ms. Valentine, are a _liar_."

She pulled back, glaring.

"A bad liar, at that. Did you really think I would miss this?" He held up the personnel file.

"Excuse me?" She put on her best offended tone.

"You know exactly what I'm talking about." She stared into her own reflection in the dark lenses of the sunglasses. "You were never in the Deltas. There's never even been a woman in the Deltas, period. And that's the tip of the iceberg, Valentine. Your qualifications have been almost completely falsified. You weren't anything but a grunt with high marks in IED disarming."

Wesker was really on a roll.

She waited until he was done ranting.

"I needed in, sir." Quiet, controlled.

"_Needed __in_? Well, it was a grievous error on your part, Ms. Valentine. I assume you understand the consequences of lying to obtain a position with the government."

"We aren't part of the government."

Wesker's heart stopped. "What are you talking about?"

"We're not. A part of any governmental organization, I mean."

He laughed at her, taking a seat, trying to appear relaxed. His lower back broke out in a cold sweat. _What __else __could __she __know?_

"Enlighten me, Jill. Please."

"The S.T.A.R.S. unit is actually classified as a part of Umbrella Pharmaceutical's intelligence branch. We aren't really associated with any law enforcement agencies. I think... Umbrella bought their way into Raccoon."

He could only stare at her.

"And I found out, after a little digging, that you and your "lab buddy" are just researchers for Umbrella. You aren't a police Captain. You're a scientist. And a worthless one if they put you on this detail. So I guess _you__'__re_ a bad liar too."

He leaned back. "I should fire you, you in-subordinating little rat."

"You could, I guess. For forging documents. But you have more brains in your head than that."

"Don't _threaten_ me, Ms. Valentine."

"I'm not threatening anyone, sir."

Wesker played with a pencil. "I haven't confirmed anything you've accused me of."

"You don't have to."

They studied each other.

"What makes you think that anyone would believe you?" He asked.

"Nothing. But there's always a chance." She smiled. "I don't know what Umbrella has going on here, Wesker, but if I go down, you're coming too."

"And what of your lover?"

Her jaw tightened. "What does he have to do with this?"

"Oh, he hasn't kept anything from you, has he? I would hate to think of that... Keeping secrets in such an honest, close relationship..."

He turned the tip of the pencil into his desk, turned it into her heart.

"What... what about him?" She asked.

"I'm going to fire him too. That suspicious activity on Ford all those months ago turned out to be quite... interesting. You see, apparently our golden boy has been running a small business."

"Just say it, Wesker."

"Did you know that Mr. Redfield distributes controlled substances?"

Jill's eyes were glassy.

"No? You weren't aware that he was independently wealthy? An entrepreneur?"

She turned her head, her hand at her mouth.

"He would never do that. You're lying." She whimpered.

Wesker sighed.

She stared at the wall, gutted by the revelation.

"It's all falling into place now, isn't it? Strange behaviors? Long absences? Excuses?" He said it so casually, ruined her life with such ease.

He watched her, eventually reaching over to hand her a tissue - some social cue he didn't even understand. She took it, sniffling.

"You can't fire him. He's supporting his sister."

"He probably should have considered that before he turned Ford into a goddamn firing range and then paid one of my men to destroy the official report."

"Let me take the fall. Reprimand him. But don't fire him, Wesker. He can turn it around. It's all he's got." She begged.

"I'm afraid it won't work that way, Jill. We're in a bit of a stand-off, aren't we? If one of us "goes down", as you so aptly put it, we _all_ do."

She wiped her face, smearing the mascara, and wiped again, trying to clean it up.

She stared at him.

He cursed her big blue eyes.

Wesker tossed the sunglasses to his desk, teeth grinding. _Well, __things __had __gotten __fucked __up __rather __quickly._ "But... you stand to lose more than me then, don't you? So I suggest the _you_ sweeten the deal and get us all out of this mess."

"What do you expect me to do, Wesker?" She yelled.

He shrugged, took a sip of cold coffee.

It tasted like day old Hell, but he swallowed it.

"He wants to marry me." She paused, regretting it as it came out of her mouth.

Wesker raised his eyebrows.

"I'll say no." She looked down. "And then we keep our jobs. And we all move on from this."

He was grinning like a fool, the pencil twirling between his spidery fingers. "That's charming, Ms. Valentine, truly. As if I could bought by something so..." His hand gestured, looking for the word.

The word, he knew, was _perfect_.

"You _live_ to see him suffer," she said through clenched teeth. "Stop acting like you don't."

Wesker studied Jill. She was wrong of course - it wasn't about Chris. He was just a peripheral casualty.

It was _her_ that he wanted.

It was _her_ that he wanted to hurt.

And it all made him sad, both of them caught in their own damned webs.

He laughed again, shaking his head. "I think you might have a deal, Jill, you might just have a deal..."

_But what can I do when misery so loves company?_

* * *

That night, Jill packed a bag and left.

Wouldn't... couldn't look at Chris.

Told him to stay at her condo with Claire until they could figure out what they needed to do.

She didn't tell him where she was going, or how long she'd be gone.

Jill left Chris.

Didn't say why, though she wanted to. (It would have raised too many questions about her conversation with the Captain).

Told him they could be friends. (As bold of a lie as either she or Wesker had told).

Said she needed time. (More time than he could ever give).

Told him maybe she would come back to him when things "calmed down" at the office. (They wouldn't have the chance).

He thought it was because of the time in the cell.

He knew underneath that it was because of the Captain, but he wasn't sure how, because they both still had their jobs.

* * *

He stared at the box.

The box that held everything.

Chris was indecisive. He wanted to tear, rip, stomp. He wanted to barge into Wesker's sleeping quarters, to haul Jill out of that bed and show her the truth.

He wanted to unmask the monster.

He wanted to be the hero.

He wanted his girl back.

But this wasn't the time.

Something was off - not quite right.

A voice, recently silenced, surfaced.

_Hold onto that_, it said. _ Soon. There's more, you know._

Chris put everything back the exact way he had found it. He polished the chest plate with the fabric of his shirt, doing away with the fingerprints. He stacked the papers neatly and put the dogtags over them.

He regarded the Shrine of Jill Valentine for a long time. Almost reverently.

It was the shrine of a goddess.

Apparently, she was Wesker's goddess as well.

Some perverted deity of fertility.

It was Pandora's Box.

* * *

_June, 2002. The Capital Building, Washington, D.C._

Jill emerged at 11:30 am.

He'd been waiting for her all morning; they wouldn't let him in during the session.

She looked natural in a fitted blue suit, her now well-manicured hand carrying a nice bag.

She had on flats (had always hated heels).

_New __costume_, he thought. _Still __Jill._

She weaved and dodged through the throng of people on the steps, on the sidewalk.

"Hey soldier." From behind her.

She stopped, mid-step. Frozen and listening for who she thought she'd heard.

Her hair was longer now, nearly to her shoulders, and it picked up in the breeze, blew around her beautiful face as she turned to him.

"I've missed you, Jilly-Bean."

* * *

"So look at you. Big time lobbyist. Wow."

She smiled, suddenly shy. "Yeah. Working on the legislature. Trying to get them on-board with stricter codes and all that. These fucking pharmaceutical companies are running over every law we throw up..."

Chris agreed, took a sip of the coffee.

They sat, side by side, on a park bench, watching the White House.

"You look..." She started, but couldn't find the word.

"Different, right?" He smiled.

"Yeah. Different... Trendy."

Chris had grown a goatee.

"You like it?"

She laughed, and so did he.

"You look like an asshole."

He covered his chin in embarrassment. Jill pushed him, laughing harder (like dishes breaking).

He sat back up and looked at her, wistful. It was an awkward moment.

She let the laugh fade. "Wesker told me about you. Before the mansion. In Raccoon."

Chris fixed his sleeve. "Oh yeah?"

"He told me about the drugs, Chris."

He frowned, wounded by the memory.

"That's why I left you." She continued.

Chris swallowed, took another drink. "I'm done with that, Jill. I was just a kid. A stupid kid with no money and two mouths to feed."

She nodded, stared at her Frappacino.

"I'm sorry." He said, shamed by her confession. "I'm sorry I let you down. But I'm glad you told me. I never knew... why you took off. You didn't even call."

"The phone works both ways, Chris."

"Well, I figured you must've had a good reason to high-tail it after all that, not to look back. I was right. But there wasn't an hour I didn't think of you."

He remembered leaving her for Rockfort.

He hadn't seen her since.

Until today.

"You got your head on straight now?" She was firm then, back to her controlled self, pushing down the old feelings.

"I do, yeah. Have for years."

She watched his face, looked for a lie, looked for some way of telling that it wasn't true - that he was still a deceitful phony. But there was nothing there.

Just those brilliant blue eyes, and dazzling smile, and that hero's glow.

"How long are you in D.C., stranger?" She asked.

"However long you're gonna let me crash on your couch... Or in your bed."

She punched him in the ribs. Playing. Like old times.

"I have something to ask you though, Jilly. For real. I'm putting together a new organization. Anti-bio-terrorism and all that. We're pretty start-up right now, but we're gonna get bigger fast."

"Yeah?" She took a bite of the Starbucks sandwich. Focaccia something or other.

"Yeah. Got this investigation going on in Russia. Pretty compelling evidence."

"Okay. And?" She asked.

"I want you back, Jill. I want my partner back."

She set down the drink. "What's your dream team called?"

"We don't really have a name yet. I was hoping that you'd help me figure it all out."

"It's just us, isn't it, Chris?"

He smiled, sheepish.

Jill shaded her eyes in the mid-day sun. She looked _into_ him. Saw only his truth. Only his heart.

Pigeons landed and cooed at their feet. Chris spread what was left of his potato chips on the ground. The city's birds gathered around him, gathered around the hero.

"Alright," she said. "I'm in."

* * *

He stood, barefoot, on the cement floor of the lab.

"_...a biological apocalypse... worldwide infection within a year..." _

The book contained everything.

A verifiable _Necronomicon_.

A sort of _Bible_.

From the first idea of eternal recreation.

To the final construct of a monster that would mark the end of mankind.

In just one night, while Wesker and Jill kept pretending, Chris read. From front to back.

Everything.

_Everything._

"_As a last resort, I will begin the project with J.V."_

It took every ounce of his strength not to pull the page out.

He read on.

About the p30.

About its mode of operation (S_copolamine_) and its side effects (_suicide __attempts_).

He thought of the marks on Jill's wrists.

She had never given him the answer to the question he didn't have to ask.

But up until now he had attributed it to an act of defiance. A last attempt at escaping.

_Him__ – _not some temporary withdrawal symptoms.

She herself seemed to believe it was her own doing - not the drug.

It was of some comfort that she didn't know though, didn't realize she was off of the p30.

It was of more comfort that Wesker had absolutely no idea she'd been weaning him off that virus. She had confided in Chris that much.

It brought him joy - elation on those good days.

But even so, he found no entry - no evidence - of the Jill he knew. The girl who gave her life for her partner so many years ago.

No.

This was not Jill Valentine.

This was Wesker's creation.

The creature-girl from the glass-womb.

The most dangerous woman in the world.

* * *

He would return – when he was sure that they were trapped in their little game – to learn more about the the Garden of Eden they had built so carefully with their lies.

He learned, for example, that Wesker was _not_ a God. He could not create life - not even in through sexual reproduction.

Especially not through sexual reproduction.

Chris indulged in that chapter over and over again.

He read it voraciously, laughed internally, found sanctuary in it.

It stopped amusing him when he discovered about the solution of that problem.

"_His sperm count is high, healthy. Strong flagellum, good speed. If properly impregnated with my DNA, they will be successful, no doubt..."_

_How... How had he gotten..._

_Her._ He realized.

_She took the condom every time._

_Every damn time._

He was destroyed by that chapter. Ashamed, run-over, KO'd.

He stopped feeling shame when he read how the solution to that problem was to be implemented.

He was enraged as he read that chapter. On fire, spitting mad, furious.

Long after he closed the journal and put it back into place the anger gave way to disappointment.

Disappointment to heartbreak.

Heartbreak to... nothingness.

He was truly alone.

He had always believed Eden would hold more for him than lies and deception.

* * *

Wesker's fingers, on her side, traced the serpent though he couldn't see it in the dark of his bunk.

She tried not to laugh from the tickling.

"I'm going to stop."

"Stop what, Al?"

"The fertility treatment."

She was quiet.

"I am not... There is nothing I can do."

She was silent for a minute, still reeling from the shock of hearing him speak about failure.

"What about all that repopulation shit?"

His fingers stopped tickling.

"I have found that I don't care. About any of it. At all." _I __want __to __live __here, __in __this __bed __with __you, __Jill._

She thought of the death and the destruction and the end of everything.

And now his apathy, his nonchalance.

It hadn't worked so he had washed his hands of it.

She chastised herself for not seeing it in him, for being surprised.

It was such a perfectly Wesker-esque attitude.

"I often wonder what he thinks." Whispered to her, interrupting her thoughts.

"About what?"

"The two of us. He must suspect _something_."

They could hear him snoring.

She buried into his chest, flattened herself against him. "We wouldn't be here... if it wasn't for Chris."

He frowned to himself. "Explain."

"If I hadn't been with him. If I hadn't belonged to Chris Redfield... you wouldn't want me." Muffled. "It's why you want me now. There's always gotta be some kind of conflict to turn you on."

He smiled then. "That's an unfair assumption, isn't it?"

"You only want whatever you can take from someone else, Al. You don't have to pretend with me."

He breathed deeply, his fingers now in her hair, chin resting on top of her head. "You don't know that. You don't know the first thing about me."

She did though - she knew him as well as he knew himself.

He let his pulse slow to match hers and they coiled together like snakes.

Wrapped around each other, tangled, laying in wait, like a pair of star-crossed vipers.

Because at the end of the day, they were all just a bunch of liars and cheats.

* * *

_"Love ceases to be a pleasure when it ceases to be a secret."_

_ - Alphra Behn_


	27. Chapter 27

_Well I won't back down, n__o I won't back down._

_You could stand me up at the gates of Hell_

_But I won't back down._

_Gonna stand my ground, won't be turned around._

_And I'll keep this world from draggin' me down_

_Gonna stand my ground, and I won't back down._

_ - Tom Petty_

* * *

Chris held it.

A little orange bottle.

Full of pills meant for some poor bastard who never came to pick them up.

Too busy being dead or something.

_Imagine that._

Chris shook the bottle.

Listened to his sanity rattle around inside.

Started to unscrew the child-proof cap.

_Don't._

Chris furrowed his brow.

_Just see what it's like._

He used a few fingers to pull out a pill.

He stared at it.

Just a little blue thing.

All that stood between him and seeing his sister again.

He looked up and into the bathroom mirror, foggy from the shower.

If he squinted, he could almost see her inside of his own reflection.

The Redfield Resemblance they'd always been teased about.

The pill dug into his palm as he leant over the counter to see himself, to see Claire.

The goddamn pill.

_Fuck it. I'm lonely._

He dropped it in the sink, watched it circle the drain... once... twice... three times.

And then it was gone.

The pill and his grip.

* * *

_July, 1990._

"I'm sorry. The doctors did what they could."

Chris held his sister, his mind completely blank.

"When will they come home?" He asked, not understanding.

"Son, your folks didn't make it." The hospital's priest was apologetic. "I'm sorry."

11 year old Claire was silent on his shoulder, sleeping in the emergency waiting room.

He didn't know what to say or do. He would start to speak, but kept stopping, some invisible force crushing his chest.

"Is there anyone we can call? An aunt, or a grandparent?"

Chris looked down; the priest's hand was on his arm, trying to keep him in the present.

"I... I dunno." He started to hyperventilate. "I don't know their numbers... I don't..."

"Calm down, son. Just stay here with your sister. We'll take care of it, okay?"

Chris stared at him, panicked.

"It's okay. Don't worry."

"Please," he said, holding onto the priest's coat. "Please. I'm... what do I tell her?"

The man looked down at him, pity. "Pray, son. You should pray, alright? And later, when she wakes up, we'll figure out what to tell her. But right now, pray for their souls."

The priest turned to leave.

"Wait. Wait, please. I don't know how..." His voice wasn't more than a whisper.

The priest walked out, the sliding doors slamming shut behind him.

Chris pulled his sleeping sister in tighter, buried his face in her hair.

He whined. Tears wetting her ponytail.

He wept and said, "Please God. Please. Please."

Chris Redfield didn't know how to pray for the souls of his dead parents.

But he tried.

He was only 17.

* * *

Claire showed back up at dinner, strangely enough. As if she'd been invited.

She stood behind Jill first, then Wesker.

Hovered between the two.

Not saying anything.

It made Chris nervous - his eyes darting to her every few seconds.

"Hey. What the hell are you looking at?" Jill set down her fork.

Wesker didn't mind. He was cutting up a piece of the rabbit Chris had snared, drenching it in the pan sauce, scooping on some of the rice with his knife. He took a dainty bite.

Wesker was one of those asshole Americans who held onto both the fork _and_ the knife when he was eating.

It drove Chris fucking nuts.

"Hey. Hello?" Jill touched his arm. "Where'd you go?"

Claire smiled down on her and reached out, right hand... almost in Jill's hair, fingers lingering too close for comfort, she kept reaching and -

Chris grabbed Jill's chair and pulled it closer to him, sudden.

She rocked from his force, laughing. "What is up with you?"

"Nothing." He smiled too, as best he could. The muscles in his shoulders tightened. "Just want you close, baby."

Claire stood there, half-shadowed.

Shaking her head.

She brought a finger to her lips; mouth curved into a strange grin.

_Shhhh..._

Chris glared at her, started eating again - shoveling it in, really - trying to appear normal.

He was afraid of this new Claire.

She had Wesker's eyes.

* * *

_August, 2008._

Claire was engaged.

Claire Redfield was engaged.

One more glass of whiskey wasn't going to change that. It burned all the way down his throat.

Claire Redfield was still engaged when Chris poured himself another. One more glass wasn't going to change that.

But at least it tuned out the chatter in the background, all the voices that congratulated the couple on the big step they'd taken in a hard time such as this.

A toast to the couple.

Chris poured himself another.

_Cheers. _

* * *

Fucking vultures.

Who did they think they were, talking like that?

He gripped the glass harder, mentally counting to ten.

Anger management. Fucking useless.

He got to twenty by the time they were out of earshot, but their voices wouldn't leave his mind.

_Just not the same anymore_

_all that alcohol. _

_lost his job, you knew that right?_

_could never get over that girl_

_what a pity_

_a shame_

_... such a waste._

And it was. But it wasn't going to bring her back.

Chris wondered if maybe he'd died that night too.

* * *

"Hey."

He'd expected Claire to come. Or Barry.

He'd never liked Leon.

He thought he'd made that clear.

"What?"

"Nothing." Leon shrugged. "Just wanted to see how you're doing. You enjoying yourself?"

The half-empty bottle of whiskey should have answered that question.

"I'm fine."

"Mhmm." Leon looked away, surveyed the room. He flashed a smile and waved to some of the guests. "'Cause I've seen you talk with like, two people at most, all evening."

He twirled the glass with his finger. "So?"

"So I wanted to make sure you're alright."

That's all he'd been hearing for the better part of last year: _You __alright, __Chris? __How __you __holding __up? __Can __we __do __anything __for __you? __You __know, __you __need __anything, __you __just __call..._

Call who - God? And tell Him He got the wrong one? Could He please send her back because, well, she missed out on about half of her life?

But no, _they_ moved on. _They_ buried her. And since _they_ didn't have a body, _they_ entombed the memories.

So life could go on. So people could get engaged.

He reached for the alcohol, but a hand stopped him. He traced the limb back to the body. It belonged to Leon.

"You want one too?" he asked, freed himself of Leon's grasp and took the bottle. "No problem, buddy. I'll pour."

"Chris..."

"What? This isn't reason enough to party? You got it all, man - got that good job and what not. Can you even wear all those medals without falling over? And see here -" He whistled. "You got the pretty girl now, too. Makes you a happy man, doesn't she? Cheers to you, hero."

Leon grabbed the bottle, set it on the table behind them.

"I think you had enough to drink tonight, Chris," he said. "The party's winding down anyway. Why don't you take one of the guest rooms, sleep it off?"

Chris snorted and suddenly the haze in his eyes cleared and his jaw tightened. "What? You want me to stick around so I can listen to you fuck my baby sister all night?"

Leon just stared.

The first punch caught him as suddenly as the verbal accusation.

Chairs flipped. Chris was jittery on his legs, but not to be underestimated. Leon picked himself up from the adjacent table and wiped blood from the nose Chris had most likely broken. The event did not go unnoticed. They had an audience now.

"Jesus," Leon said, calming Chris as well as himself. He put his hands up in surrender. He hadn't wanted to make a scene. This was supposed to be Claire's big night. Not even her plowed brother had the right to take that away from her.

"Okay, man. You got me. You're right." He took a step forward, hands up. "Why don't we go outside, take some deep breaths, cool down."

"Oh, we're gonna go outside," Chris agreed, but his voice, his presence, was anything but peaceful. "We're gonna go outside right the fuck now."

"Dude, don't do this. Don't do this to her. It's her day. You're slapping your own sister in the face with this, Chris."

That was enough to set him off. The comment was followed by some shocked gasps from the audience, before he launched himself at Leon. The other man parried, but Chris dished out again and got Leon in the stomach.

It was then that Claire Redfield broke through the crowd, just in time to see her betrothed tumble back from a blow. She jumped between them like the voice of reason, standing protectively in front of her boyfriend.

"Stop it, Chris! What's wrong with you?"

"Claire, get out of the way." He pushed her to the side; gentle intention, harsh execution. "This is between me and Leon here. We got something to celebrate, right, Leon? So you wanna marry my sister... did you even ask me, before you took her? Huh? You think just because you're the President's pet you can walk right in and take whatever crosses your fucking path?"

So he lunged, going high, but this time Leon dodged.

The whiskeys influence slowed Chris down, both in action and reaction. He earned himself an uppercut for that. But his opponent didn't put a lot of force into the blow. Leon was not aiming to injure. He was still playing defense.

And then Claire was between them again, pushing her weight against her brother. "Chris, _please!_ For God's sake, stop!"

This time, he shoved her out of the way, forceful, before resuming his attack on Leon.

"What's up, motherfucker? Don't have the balls? You scared now?"

"_Chris!__"_

"I'll take care of this, Claire. Don't worry. Your big brother's got it all sorted, right asshole? Get up and fight Leon, or are you afraid your hair'll get all messed up?"

He reached back for another strike when his elbow struck something behind him.

_Hard._

The impromptu audience gasped. Leon leaped and Chris had just enough time to turn around and realize that he'd just knocked out his sister before a fist connected rather unpleasantly with his own face.

"What the fuck is wrong with you?" Leon bellowed, pulling Chris by the collar.

Claire had been the last straw. Her brother obviously didn't know what he was doing and Leon was going to make sure that he remembered, for the next week - for a long, long time.

"It's been over two years. Two _goddamn_ years! She's fucking dead! She's gone, ok? Get over it!"

They exchanged more punches, some kicks, Chris doing the best he could while he laid on his back.

Leon hadn't earned those medals for nothing.

In the state Chris was in, he stood no chance. The fight didn't last long.

By the time it was over, half the guests were gone, the room was turned upside down.

Chris was on the floor, subject to both Leon's blows and the aftermath of alcohol. He threw up after a well-placed kick to the ribs.

It burned.

He remembered them talking; Leon asking her if she was alright, if she needed a doctor.

He remembered Leon leading his sister out. She could barely get to her feet.

But Chris didn't think of his sister, or Kennedy, or the guests staring at him as his vision faded to black.

He just couldn't stopping thinking about how it had already been two years since she'd died.

* * *

He crept.

A low, sprawling crawl from one bush to the next.

He was confident now. Had never been much of a hunter before the End of It All. But he was moving up in the world, graduating from squirrels and rabbits.

This animal... this animal was beautiful. A seven-point whitetail. 200-250 pounds, Chris guessed.

The buck was grazing. It let him get close, unaccustomed to the smell of humans.

Sometimes, it would stop - it's giant ears turning, listening. The tail switched back and forth. Big black eyes on Chris, watching.

And he would stop and watch too.

Close enough.

He raised the rifle.

It was a big buck.

He chambered a round and aimed.

It was a really big buck.

And it was challenging him.

It was _sure_ he couldn't do anything.

It was _certain_ he'd never be powerful enough.

Chris thought of Wesker.

He shot the prideful stag right through the heart.

* * *

Just outside of the hatch, he laid the deer on an old tarp he found.

The animals head settled at a bizarre angle - the antlers so large and gawdy they were almost comical.

He knelt with the hacksaw.

"They carry Lyme Disease, you know." Wesker watched, hypercritical, arms crossed.

Chris didn't reply.

He pulled out a leg, held it straight and began to saw at the ankle joint.

Wesker frowned at the noise - a sickening grind of bone and flesh.

He removed every hoof that way.

The dead eyes seemed to bore a hole through Wesker, who couldn't stand still.

He paced around Chris and the carcass.

"Do something with your life, Hoss. Help me string this bad boy up."

They noosed the buck, threw the rope over a high limb, then pulleyed the animal until it hung several feet in the air by its head.

Its tongue lolled out. Wesker stared, unconcerned about the look of horror on his pretty face.

Chris brought the hunting knife from its sheath. He cut a beautiful red necklace into the thick pelt and peeled some of the skin back.

He wrapped the exposed hide around a tennis ball.

Wesker watched him carefully.

Chris tied another rope just under the hidden ball.

He wound the rest of it around his arm and then backed away.

The entire hide pulled off, leaving behind the deep pink muscles, held together only by some strange white membrane.

The deer's head though, remained untouched. A morbid display of death.

Wesker cringed at the tearing. He brought a hand to his mouth, swallowed hard.

"We can salt this; it'll keep 'til we can tan it," Chris said, turning the skin inside-out. He petted the fur. Beautiful, coarse brown hair. "That was a helluva deer."

He cut a slit all the way down the belly then, thrust his arms in up to his elbows, yanking out organs and guts.

Wesker turned his face - the smell of copper and iron, the sound of wet ripping too much for him in his heightened awareness.

When he dared to look, he found The Other covered in the animals blood. A smear of crimson across his face where he'd swatted at a mosquito.

Right over his eyes and the bridge of his nose.

War paint.

Everything that had been alive lay in a still-warm puddle at Chris Redfield's feet.

He crouched down and sifted through the gore.

He found something of interest.

"What is it?" Wesker was gruff.

Chris held it up.

What was left of the heart glistened in the sunshine.

* * *

_September, 2008._

"You can't be serious, Mr. Redfield."

The folder was courteously pushed back over the table. Unopened.

Chris was adamant. "And_ you_ must be kidding me. Look at it. Figures. Numbers. Black on white."

"Tricell is _sponsoring_ us. An investigation into..." he searched for the right word. "... such questionable information could ruin our partnership with them. I don't want to be the one telling my men that they lost their jobs because Chris Redfield had a hunch about Tricell's new CEO."

He tried to keep his breath even. He wanted to punch the damn facts into O'Brien. There was no way he would leave the office without a mission assignment. He _needed _this job.

"Sir." The diplomatic approach. "I've been with the BSAA from the beginning. Hell, I was in this shit-storm before the BSAA even got its fancy name. I was there for the rise and fall of Umbrella. If anyone knows this business, it's me."

He straightened in his seat. He had his speech down. He was going to convince the President if he had to. "Ten years ago I had this same talk with the Raccoon chief of police. You know what he told me? That we couldn't accuse Umbrella of mass producing bio-weapons just because four people _said_ so. And we all know how that ended."

"I'm aware of what happened to Raccoon City, Redfield. What you've done to stop biological warfare. You're a hero, no qualms there. But you've done your job. Let others do theirs now."

"Sir, you don't understand-"

"I understand _very _well." O'Brien slapped another folder on the table.

He opened it, started to read.

"Chris Redfield. Born March 17, 1973. Parents died in '90 - car accident. Joined the Airforce in '91. Dishonorable discharge two years later. Joined S.T.A.R.S. Witness of the Mansion Incident in '98. Co-founded the BSAA in '01." O'Brien looked up briefly. "Numerous successful missions. Ah, there we have it. Honorably discharged from the BSAA in '07."

He closed the folder, put it on the table. "You're out, Redfield. I gave you that honorable discharge as a present. With your behavior after she died..." O'Brien shook his head. "You deserved to be kicked in the mud, not saluted off the grounds."

It hurt him to say it out loud. But if a lie was what it took to get him where he wanted to be, he didn't care.

"Sir, you know what Jill... you know what Ms. Valentine meant to me. Her death knocked me out of my stride, okay? I know that, you know that. But it's been two years now, sir. It's time to start over. Right here - with this." He pointed to the papers he'd brought. "It's my whole life now. I've got nothing else. And I can't just sit at home, worrying about who's gonna win the next Oscar. I know what's going on behind the curtains."

He sat back, waiting.

O'Brien sighed.

"I'm going to regret this, Redfield. Let me see what you have."

* * *

_September, 1990._

"C'mere, Claire."

He was wasted again. Uncle Jimmy was wasted again.

Chris watched, pensive, as his sister brought their uncle another beer.

She held the can out to him.

Condensation dripped off.

It was slippery in her hand, he knew.

He could see her skinny arm shaking.

Angry purple bruises on the wrist.

He didn't want to think of where else she had bruises.

"Well, c'mere. I won't bite, girl. Bring it closer."

Chris's thighs twitched, waiting, wound tightly.

She stepped in, nearer to the reclining chair.

Uncle Jimmy's hand lay palm up on the arm of the tattered Laz-E Boy.

His fingers motioned for the beer.

Claire slowly set it down, her big blue eyes on his every move.

He took it and then kicked at her, shooed her away.

Chris sighed in relief.

Uncle Jimmy wasn't up to his usual tricks that day. Too drunk.

But it was just a day's reprieve.

_Tomorrow_, Chris thought. _Tomorrow __he__'__ll __do __it __again. __And __I__'__ll __be __ready._

* * *

Down in the ravine, near the freeway, Chris took her into the woods.

He set up the can-target on a stump.

He taught Claire how to throw a knife.

"Tomorrow," Chris said. "Tomorrow he'll do it again, Claire. And you'll be ready."

* * *

He dug through the socks.

Grimaced, pushing Uncle Jimmy's underwear out of the way.

His fingers felt the back of the drawer.

He fumbled.

Found the cool metal, taped to the peg board backing.

Wrapped his hand around it.

Took it out, tested the weight of the piece.

Held a gun for the first time.

He was only 17 years old.

And already he was considering what it meant to take another man's life.

_Tomorrow_, Chris thought. _Tomorrow __he__'__ll __do __it __again. __And __we__'__ll __be __ready._

* * *

"Birdie!"

"There's no such thing." Wesker squared his shoulders, rocked his hips and lined up. "We are playing in Wal-Mart."

Wesker took a practice swing, turning in perfectly, his posture flawless. Chris rolled his eyes.

The Captain found his stance again and swung hard. The driver connected with the ball - sent it sailing across the store, from the outdoor sports section into produce. They heard it crash through the glass doors of a decrepit sea food freezer.

Chris snorted and laughed, the game never seeming to bore him. "Go on, old man, give it another shot."

Wesker's lips turned at the corners - the most of a smile Chris had seen in ages.

"And the King of Cocksuckers takes to the greens... He's chosen a Callaway Diablo Edge for this next shot..."

Wesker shook his head and planted his feet, readying the club.

"Looks like he's gearing up for a big one... dick that is. He's dropped the soap..."

Wesker grinned, wicked. "You... are a vulgar son of a bitch..."

The driver cut the air with a beautiful whir. They watched the ball ricochet off a skylight and disappear. Somewhere, Jill screamed and then cursed at them.

Chris winced and laughed, one hand on Wesker's shoulder.

He yanked it back. He hadn't meant it; hadn't meant to touch the monster.

Near the bikes, Claire stood watching. Chris looked at her.

She was livid.

_"What is wrong with you?"_ she screamed. _"Playing with fucking Wesker? You know what, Chris? Now. Fucking now! Kill him!" _

Wesker saw Chris's jaw drop, a panic had seized him. He turned to see what Chris was focused on.

Nothing.

Just children's bikes.

_"Now! Kill him now!"_ she yelled, her voice cracking. _"Kill that fucker!" _

The club caught Wesker in the temple first, then across the back when he was doubled over. He grunted in pain.

He swung a third time - but Wesker grabbed it mid-air.

He wrenched it from Chris's hands and whipped it into the next aisle; pinning him to the shelving, his fist cocked back so fast that the other man couldn't even register what was about to happen.

Wesker wasn't sure how many times he punched him.

He only stopped when the watch-wrapped-in-cotton thumping of his own heart echoed away, leaving Jill's screams and pleas.

He dropped Chris and turned to her, dazed.

She'd also taken a club to him. She let the bent up putter clatter to the linoleum.

He looked down at his bloody fist, and then Chris's face.

"He attacked me." Wesker's voice was oddly shaken.

She raked her hands through her hair.

Chris was out cold.

"When is this gonna stop?" She asked. "Is he taking the pills, Al? Huh?"

Wesker just stared at her.

She stumbled and then slid down an endcap, her head in her hands.

"He attacked me." Wesker repeated, not knowing what to say or do.

"I know, Al, I know." She was exhausted.

Wesker stood silently, Jill sat, and Chris found relief from Claire the only way he could... in sleep.

* * *

_October, 1990._

"That fucker shot at me! I want him out! I want him and that nasty little _bitch_ out!"

Jimmy was on the front lawn, yelling at the police.

Chris in handcuffs, Claire crying.

She was being escorted away by a woman.

The sprinklers were on in the dark. Jimmy tripped over a hose as he followed them down to the squad cars.

"You hear me, boy? I hope you and your pig sister rot in hell!"

The cops were leading him away, gentle. Cop Number One had his hands on Chris's arms; Cop Number Two opened the door.

They knew what was what.

"I'm pressing charges, you dumb fuck!" He kicked the sprinkler. His foot caught in it.

It soaked him and he yelled more obscenities.

The cops looked at each other. They knew Jimmy.

"What's gonna happen to Claire?" Chris asked, looking over his shoulder.

"We've got it. We'll take care of her. She'll be in a shelter tonight." Cop Number One said.

Chris got in the car, Cop Number Two guiding his head, careful.

"Then what?"

Cop Number One took the driver's seat. Shut his door. Cop Number Two got in.

"She'll be placed in foster, probably."

They were pulling away from the little brick house. Jimmy was flicking them all off.

"I turn 18 soon," Chris said, watching the shitty neighborhood pass in the strange glow of the street lights.

"Yup. Then she'll go home with you. If you can prove you'll be able to support her."

Chris nodded. _Whatever __the __cost._

"They're probably gonna offer you a pre-trial diversion, kid. It won't be easy, but take it. Might be like a military stint. Could do ya good," Cop Number One said.

"Yeah. It ain't bad. Just do your time. You might like it," Cop Number Two suggested. "Your sister can live with you once you get a place."

Chris nodded again.

He would do whatever needed to be done.

Six months later, Chris enlisted in the Airforce.

* * *

_July 21, 1998._

Second base.

Hurried hands.

Hurried tongues.

Rounding third.

A knock at the car window. Then a light.

A police officer caught the ball at just before home.

She was out.

* * *

She cursed at him first.

His silence was deafening.

She begged then. "Please don't tell Chris."

He did not speak.

"He'll kill Jason. You know he will."

No reply. He stopped at Von Costle Boulevard. Then the tears started.

"We weren't even doing anything!"

Claire was a whiner. _Strange_. He'd never have pegged her as one. She had seemed so hardened by life even at 17.

He clicked on the blinker.

"Chris hates you. He thinks you're a fucking asshole."

In front of the townhouses, he pulled up to the curb. Parked.

"He's right about me, your brother. I am a _fucking_ _asshole_. Now get out of the car."

The apples did not fall far from the tree in the Redfield family.

This was the second one he'd caught with their pants down.

* * *

Chris opened the door, and Claire pushed past, crying.

Wesker looked at him. "I thought you might want _that_ back."

Chris rubbed his face. Exasperated. "Jason Rogers?"

Wesker nodded.

"Jesus. That little fuck has been hanging around forever trying to pull box." Chris leaned on the door frame, arms crossed. "If she messes up at college..." He trailed off, leaving the rest of the threat to imagination. "I swear she does this because of our parents. Self-sabotage or something."

"Well, she's home. And I recommend a chastity belt. I hear they're effective against these types of things." Wesker turned to leave.

"You want a beer, Captain?"

"I don't drink." He kept walking.

"Coffee then."

He stopped. "Why is it that you want me to stay?"

The air had been more than electrified since Wesker caught them in the cell.

Chris shrugged. "Just a chat."

* * *

Wesker had never been in Jill's house. He looked at everything carefully - the furniture, the color of the walls, the dishware left on the kitchen table.

He memorized it all.

Thought of her living her life there, doing mundane things, doing less mundane things.

His painting hung in the living room, above a couch.

Chris noticed his interest. "I dunno where she got that. I put it up a while back. It's ugly as hell."

Wesker smirked. _Of __course_.

* * *

On the back porch, Chris rocked in a chair.

The coffee was hot.

The summer night was loud with crickets and traffic and open-windowed conversations. It was dark.

"Where is Ms. Valentine this evening?" He slipped in as casually as possible.

"Ya know, I have no idea. I was about to ask you the same thing."

Wesker shot him a quizzical look. "Ask _me_?"

"She left. We're done." He said it as if it were common knowledge.

Though his heart raced, his countenance remained unmoved for Chris. "Such a shame."

"She's been sleeping somewhere else. She decided to leave until I could find a place."

Wesker raised his eyebrows. Waited.

"I figured she might be with you."

He laughed then. "With me? _Jill?_ She is most definitely _not_. That's completely unethical."

Chris was serious. He turned in his chair so that he faced him. "Off the record, sir? Just between us?"

He grinned. Wicked. Taunting. "Sure. Go on."

"I see through your little act, Wesker." His voice was low. His lip curled at he end of the name, teeth bared. "Don't even pull that holier-than-thou shit with me. You'd fuck her in heartbeat. We both know it."

The grin was gone. "Watch your mouth, Redfield."

"How about you watch _your_ mouth, you dick. I know what you're doing."

Wesker sat back. _Did __Chris __know? __Did __she __tell __him what she found out?_

"You've been fucking with her head for months. Pretending you can fire us. Telling her lies. You fucked everything up. _Everything_."

Wesker stood. Then Chris. He began thinking of what he would do when Chris swung. Chris was a right-handed fighter and his power was in his straights - he had seen it a thousand times in the gym.

"And you couldn't just walk away. You couldn't just leave it alone, when you found us. You had to humiliate her. You had to make her feel like shit."

In his mind, he went through different scenarios. He would try to dodge and then put him in a hold, lock the elbow. But Chris fought dirty. He was taught on the streets. He would have to drop Chris quickly.

"I was going to marry her. Did you know that?"

Wesker was silent.

"She won't even speak to me now. I haven't talked to her outside of work in a week."

Chris looked at him. He was ragged, roughed up.

Wesker almost felt bad for the other man.

Almost.

"I _know_. I can see it. You want her."

"I've had enough." Wesker turned. "You're irrational right now, Redfield."

He opened the sliding door, half expecting Chris to take a chair to his back.

"Captain."

He listened.

Chris smiled. "This isn't over. This thing between us."

Wesker smiled too. "No. I suppose not."

_Not until one of us is dead..._

_... Or both of us._

* * *

Wesker stood in the bathroom.

The fan above him went on noisily.

He counted the little blue pills.

12 left.

That was right.

It was what it should be.

He swept them off the counter and into the orange bottle.

When he went back into the lab, Jill looked at him, waiting for a sign.

He shrugged.

Jill sighed.

Chris pretended not to notice the exchange.

* * *

_February, 2009._

"Your partner will be Sheva Alomar. West African Division. She grew up in that area. Good guide. Good shot. You'll like her."

He looked at the photo on her file and handed the paper back to the officer.

"I don't want her."

"Frankly, I don't care what you want, Redfield. You called in a favor with O'Brien. You've got none with me. That girl will be your partner and that's the end of the story. Now get on that plane."

* * *

She looked even younger than in the photo. Filled to the brim with confidence. After all, she thought she was fighting for a good cause, not a personal vendetta.

"Welcome to Africa." She stuck out a hand in greeting. "My name is Sheva Alomar."

"Chris Redfield."

"Your reputation precedes you, Mr. Redfield. It's an honor."

He wanted to send her back home then. It wasn't an honor. If HUNK's information had been right, it was a death sentence.

He smiled and let Sheva Alomar believe in her role as a hero just a little while longer.

"Just Chris, thanks."

* * *

He had to sit down. The world was spinning.

Sheva took the laptop from his hands before he could drop it.

"Hey, what's wrong with you?" She asked, kneeling beside him. She spoke with the fear of abandonment in the African desert. "Chris, what's wrong?"

He covered his face, counted back from ten. He was shaking. Self-loathing washed over him. He fought hard not to cry.

She was alive.

Jill Valentine was alive.

And for two years, he had done nothing to help her.

* * *

"I'm not leaving you." Her tone left no room for objections.

He'd told her the story. All of it. Tricell's shady activities were all the same to him. Excella Gionne could do whatever her little Italian heart desired without him giving a shit.

He shook his head _no_. "You're going. I'm radioing Mike, he'll get you out of here. You're in over your head."

She crossed her arms. "And you're not?"

"This is my war, Sheva. Not yours."

"You're not going to make it an hour out there alone. That guy was chopping up people with a _chainsaw_."

"I've been through worse."

"I don't care. I'm not going. I'm helping you. We're partners."

She offered him a hand.

* * *

The stone walls reproduced the sound of gunshot very well.

Less so, the results of it.

It was a slow death. She'd been hit in the stomach.

Too far right to hit her heart, too far down to get her lungs.

He covered the entry wound, pressed her shirt to it, hoping to stave the leak.

She wasn't even going to pass out from bloodloss first.

In the catacombs of Kijuju Autonomous Zone she had no chance.

So he helped her in the only way he could think of. He took his godforsaken, blood-covered hands and put them over her face and gave her his word that he would avenge her death.

When his voice was hoarse with promises and regret, he let go.

And she stopped moving.

* * *

In his cold bed, Chris laid on his back.

He stared up at the ceiling of the bunk.

He heard Wesker moan. And then his throaty _please_.

Almost imperceptible.

Someone would have to be really listening to hear it.

They were good.

Very slick.

He _never_ heard Jill though.

Not once. Not ever.

But she was in there, doing some very interesting things with the monster.

Too ashamed to mewl or beg or groan like she usually did?

He wondered if she looked the same with _him_.

His face hurt from the beating.

Lip split.

His fists clenched.

Claire sat on the foot of his bed, her new red eyes glowing.

"_You know what you have to do."_

Chris turned over, careful of his bruises.

Careful of his broken ego.

"Yeah, Claire. I know what I have to do."

* * *

_"So man's insanity is heaven's sense; and wandering from all mortal reason, man comes at last to that celestial thought, which, to reason, is absurd and frantic; and weal or woe, feels then uncompromised, indifferent as his God."_

_ - Herman Melville_


	28. Chapter 28

**AN: This chapter is dedicated to Maidenchan, who inspired me to write Wesker in a completely different light, if only for a few paragraphs.**

**slt.**

**Book Credit - ****Lover Awakened****, by J.R. Ward. We do not own or profit from any of Ms. Ward's creations.**

* * *

_Nobody sees you when you are lying in your bed_

_And I wanna crawl in_

_But I cry instead._

_I want your warm, but it will only_

_Make me colder when it's over._

_So I can't tonight, baby._

_ - "Love Ridden"_

* * *

"You can't."

"Why?"

"Well... _Because_." She was obstinate.

"It's July, Jill. There's so much game out there now. And I'll be back in time for your birthday."

She chewed her nails - a habit she'd left in the past and picked up again in the last few weeks.

Chris wasn't himself - in spirit at least.

He didn't touch her.

He didn't look at her _that_ way anymore.

She wondered sometimes if he knew about Wesker.

He never said anything though, and she was too afraid.

So it hung in the air.

Like the gallows.

"How many days?"

"I dunno. Three? Yeah? You'll be fine, baby. You got Prince Charming over there." Chris smiled at her, reassuring.

She sat on their little bed, watching him pack. "Did you... have you talked to him about this?"

Chris set down the folded clothes, looked at her darkly. "Really? You want me to ask _his_ permission?"

"Permission for what?" Wesker stood in the door way.

"I'm going up. Gonna hunt for a few days." Chris said it casually, stuffing some pants into a bag.

Wesker eyed him. "There is plenty of meat in the freezer, Chris."

"It's not that. I'm taking a break... from this bunker. I can't do small spaces for too long."

They looked at each other, suspicious. Jill bit her nails.

"You should be careful," Wesker said, finally. "Do you have what you need? Take a rifle. A hand gun too."

She almost stood up. _Allowing him to go? And letting him have weapons?_

Chris folded slowly now, an odd expression. He hadn't expected that reaction either.

He seemed unsettled by it. "Yeah, Hoss. I got it under control."

"I don't think it's a good idea. I don't want him to go." She spoke up.

"Mr. Redfield is special ops, Jill. He's quite a big boy. He'll be fine." And Wesker walked back down the hall, calling out, "I'll set up the two-way for you."

"See. Everything'll be okay. Like old times."

Chris set his knives in a row on the dresser. He chose his largest hunting blade. "You guys can catch up... do whatever it is you did when I wasn't around."

She glared at him. "What the hell is that supposed to mean?"

He looked up, innocently. "Nothing, babe. Just... you know, talk or whatever."

She watched him do the rest of his packing.

"You're coming back, aren't you?" She whispered.

He softened, went to her, put his arms around her. She let herself be pulled in. He had gotten so strong and healthy. Chris was solid again; looking and feeling like himself every day, even if the fire wasn't in him anymore.

"Of course I'm coming back, Jilly-Bean. Of course."

* * *

_January, 2006._

"It's called _Scopolamine_. It's derived from the _Atropa belladonna_."

"A lovely flower. It's a tropane alkaloid then?"

Excella nodded. "A muscarinic antagonist."

He paged through the report. "Tell me again how this benefits the furtherance of my... _our_ cause."

"Mind control, my love." She purred. "A zombie without all the... mess."

Wesker held the vial up to the light. "You say you can mass produce this?"

"We are working very hard on a synthesized compound - a mixture of _Scopolamine_ and a steroid to combat the adverse physical effects of the tropane."

"And what are these 'adverse effects'?"

"Dizziness, inability to speak, visual disturbances. The steroid additive will work to undo those."

Wesker nodded. "Typical psychological reactions?"

"Well, psychosocial effects of _Scopolamine_ are actually more... desirable. Things like memory loss. Robot-like complacency."

She smiled, but sensed he wasn't impressed. "In early tests, it was even used to resuscitate rats when administered intravenously in high doses."

"And what's the working name of this zombie compound?"

"p30, Albert."

He watched the liquid swish back and forth.

A beautiful garnet cocktail.

"This is nice. Interesting."

Her smile grew.

"It will suffice as a cover for our real research. Turn over whatever you have to our satellite labs and use the name _p30_ for what we're doing here."

She looked confused, her pride stinging. "Do you want me to keep going with it or..."

"Shelve it. I need all of your energy focused on Uroboros. I don't want you working on anything else."

She stood in front of him, clutching the lab report, the smile gone.

He stared at her expectantly.

She didn't move.

"Well, that's all, Excella. Get back to the lab. I need that test subject prepped."

He walked out of the office, flipping the light switch off as he went.

She stood in the dark, clutching the lab report.

* * *

_August 2, 2006._

Excella watched from behind the glass.

The guards wouldn't let her in.

He was frantic in the lab - mad with panic.

She saw it in his body, heard it when he yelled at the scientists.

He'd killed six of them. He would keep going, she knew, until they were all dead.

There was something else too - such pain.

Excella could not understand it.

Who was the girl on the table?

_Such pain._

Wesker raised the magnum and executed another. That one she knew by name.

Excella's fists clenched.

"Stop him! There isn't need for this!" She shouted at one of the guards.

They looked at her, blank and ignorant. Then they turned away.

"Did you hear me? Stop this!"

They didn't react to her, under orders not to.

"Please. There's a way. Tell him there's a way! Quickly!"

One of the guards, reluctant, went into the lab.

Excella sighed, thinking of the drug he had told her to forget about.

There was no going back now, whoever that girl might prove to be.

To see him hurt, to see him so afraid... was more than she could stand.

And the p30.

_The p30._

But Excella knew then that it would not end well.

None of it.

* * *

_September, 2007._

She watched them spar from the observatory.

Her heels sounded like little bells as she paced slowly over the metal catwalk.

Below her, Wesker and and his pet wrestled.

He spent so much time with her, on her, _for_ her.

It made Excella nauseous.

* * *

Jill was slammed to her back, the wind knocked out of her. Her eyes were open wide, staring straight up.

His face hovered over hers. He was fuzzy, but undeniably... Wesker.

"Up, Jill. Again." He pulled her to standing as if she were a rag doll.

She shook her head, trying to clear it.

He stood apart from her, his body in a crouch, ready for her attack. He motioned for her to try.

She stumbled, still reeling. Then she rushed.

She missed him by three feet, sliding to her knees on the polished floor.

Wesker looked at her then, his hands on his hips. She was fast - very fast. And strong. But something was wrong.

"What is it?" He asked.

Jill of course, could not answer. She glared in his direction, rubbing her tired eyes.

His gaze went to Excella, above them.

"She cannot see, Albert. It's the p30." She shrugged, arms crossed.

He sighed.

* * *

"Overlays have been shown to help some ADHD sufferers. It improves the ability to focus by keeping the overactive part of the brain stimulated so the eyes can work."

The lab tech showed him rudimentary designs - glasses, goggles, something like a motorcycle helmet. "Red seemed to be the tint of preference for most subjects."

"None of these will work in combat." Wesker mumbled.

The tech fidgeted, nervous. "Do you... have any suggestions, sir?"

Wesker stared at the CADD renderings, spreading the papers across the lab table.

His fingers on his lips, thrumming. "Have you considered a mask?"

* * *

"It's probably better that her face is concealed."

"Oh, I agree..." She drawled. _Anything to keep that animal covered up._

He stood behind Excella, his fingertips trailing down her back, whispering. "Terrifying and poetic, isn't it?"

It reminded her of the plague masks. It disgusted her.

She hadn't signed up for all this - hadn't signed up for the living-dead girl, hadn't signed up to make monsters, hadn't signed up to turn her back on everyone and everything she'd known.

He was worth it though.

He had to be.

He was all she had left.

So she smiled, a flute of champagne in her delicate hand. "Albert, it's _perfect_."

They watched as Jill grappled with a partner. She pinned a man twice her size and flung another off her back with ease - the sickening crack of his bones breaking.

The red eyes glittered.

Wesker beamed.

_He does everything short of giggle like a schoolgirl when that little whore of his is around._

Jill breathed heavily under the repulsive mask, the ugly black cowl rippling. She seemed to stare straight at them, through the two-way glass.

Excella threw back the rest of her drink.

* * *

_On the first day of their freedom from Chris, they were wild and young._

She laughed until she was out of breath, dodging around him in the lab. Always just out of reach.

He finally caught her, pulled her down to the floor with him by her underwear.

Got her in a lock, held her down as squirmed like a kitten.

He nipped her all over - behind the knee, her back, her neck, her arms.

She screeched and put up her pretend-fight.

Laughing until she was light-headed.

She had never heard him laugh in pleasure before - _genuine_ pleasure.

It was a beautiful, liberating sound.

He echoed off the walls of the messy lab.

Both of them like dishes breaking.

He kissed her ear and found his way inside.

She loved the first thrust.

They laughed when she gasped.

* * *

"You just wanted him gone."

Wesker stroked her side, her ribs. "Mmmm... perhaps."

She could feel him smile in the dark.

"Probably shouldn't have given him so many guns."

He rubbed his nose in her hair, smelling her. "I'm unconcerned."

"Yeah, I know. But he's crazy, Al."

He touched her face. "Don't let it worry you. There's nothing he can do to us."

She rested her head on his chest, circling one of his nipples with her finger. "I dunno."

He nudged her hand away. "That tickles. And don't talk about him anymore. It kills my libido."

Wesker pulled her up, on top of him. A thigh on either side of hips.

"You're excited by this. All this sneaky, back-stabby shit." He could hear her smiling.

"Yes... I love the idea that Chris could arrive at any time... to find us here... _fucking_ on the floor... and all those big, bad guns..." He laughed, half-serious.

She sighed, found his hands, pinned them above his head. He let her.

"Are you arresting me, Officer Valentine?"

"Yes."

"Under what pretense?"

"Being a dick."

"I see... I demand a recitation of my rights."

"Oh, no - they can't save you now. I'm gonna throw the book at you this time, Wesker."

She ground her hips against his.

He moaned. "Please, Officer Valentine... be sure to _really_ teach me a lesson..."

* * *

_September 23, 1998._

She wept.

She wailed.

She practically threw herself to the ground in her grief.

And Wesker dragged her by the wrist.

The strange men had taken her from Leon and Claire. They'd come in, broken down the doors, masquerading as U.S. troops.

And then they'd dropped her into the clutches of a man she'd seen perhaps four times in her short life.

"Stop it, Sherry. Stop it." An angry, unfamiliar voice.

Her face was wet with tears.

She paused long enough to hear him... and then returned to screaming.

"Oh, Christ. You are _exactly_ like your father."

He yanked her; she tripped and fumbled along after him, her little loafers scraping against the rooftop.

The helicopter whirred, waiting for them to make a dramatic exit from the town that wouldn't exist in seven minutes.

The pilot watched their approach.

Wesker turned to her, grabbed her by her tiny shoulders, too rough.

There was mucus coming out of her nose.

He looked at her, shook her once. "Listen to me, Sherry. Stop it and listen. Your parents are dead."

Her eyes were like saucers.

"They are not coming back. They were Umbrella's fools and now they've paid for it with their lives. And all of your carrying on is pointless."

Her bottom lip shook.

"Do you want to die, Sherry? Do you? Because we are both going to die if we stand here while you throw a tantrum."

She screeched and went limp, dropping to her already bloodied knees.

Wesker looked around for help.

He was really bad at this.

"Fine. I'll go. I'll leave. And then you'll be sorry."

She sank down farther, heaving and writhing, her face on the tarred cement.

Wesker watched, a hand on his forehead, the other on his hip.

And whether it was William's ghost or some last shred of humanity, he'd never know.

He bent down, picked her up, and carried her.

He felt her head on his shoulder.

Her little hands clutching at his jacket.

Her tears on his neck.

He ducked into the helicopter and nodded to the pilot.

They left Raccoon City as it toppled in on itself.

And he held her as she slept.

* * *

"I am not meant to be a father." He said it suddenly, absently.

Sometimes the slivers of his life worked their way into their meetings.

She enjoyed hearing him be human.

He was sitting up in the bed that was his throne, staring into space, thinking out loud.

Ada slithered out from under the silk sheets.

"She cries every night, until she collapses and sleeps. I can't... I don't know what to do with her feelings. She's so... messy."

Ada listened as she slipped back into the slinky gown. She slid the belt up her thigh. Wesker saw the glimmer of the throwing knife in the low light.

"Are you kind to her?" She asked, glancing over a bare shoulder at him.

He looked at her. Silent.

"Right," she said, going back to the intricate straps of her heels. "It is _you_ we're talking about."

"I give her whatever she desires."

"That's not the point."

"What _is _the point then, Ms. Wong?"

She stood, straightening the dress. He had just had sex with her, yet he called her _Ms. Wong._

"She's a little girl. She needs you to be nice to her. She's alone."

"I'm here."

"No, you're not." She checked the cartridge of the handgun. Slammed it back. "Talk to her."

"What will I say?"

He sounded fragile.

Ada holstered the firearm, looked at him. His eyes were almost blue again in that light.

She leaned over the bed, took his face in her hands.

"You'll figure it out, Wesker. You always do."

* * *

_June, 2008._

She was a pretty girl.

She looked like both of her parents - tall and gangly, freckles across her cheeks and nose as if she had been sprinkled by a paintbrush.

Wesker had watched her grow and through some kind of divine intervention, had figured out what to say in his minimalist style. They had struggled, butted heads during her teens, but they found their way.

She was in college. She would be successful.

He'd urged her to pursue what she loved: Criminal Law. (That had been a tense confession on her part).

But he knew the New World wouldn't wait for her to finish her degree.

* * *

They stepped off the jet together onto the private landing.

"I have business to attend to. There's another car coming for me." He was already dialing someone. "Enjoy a nice meal. Get some rest."

They kissed each other's cheeks and she got into the waiting limo, headed for the heart of Paris. The lights of the city twinkled in the distance.

"Sherry."

She turned, pulled a headphone out of one ear. "What?"

He stared at her, more intensely than usual.

"_What_?"

"Take care."

She smiled. "You're such a weirdo. See you later, _Al_-ligator."

She knew he'd hated that joke since she was a child.

Tonight though, he didn't cringe. He let it be.

"Yes. Later." He said it slowly, almost a sigh.

He watched the limo pull away and then headed back to the jet.

It was the last time he saw Sherry Birkin.

* * *

She didn't find the letter until that night, at their hotel - the same one he had taken her to as a child.

He'd shown her the Eiffel Tower for the first time at 13, had stalked the halls of the Louvre with her. She recalled laughing at the _squeegie_ sound his black boots made on the museum floors.

He'd even let her hold his hand once as she stared at the Champs-Elysees, sad and lonely, on a cold French Christmas Eve.

He distracted her with stories about Napoleon and the guillotine and all of the horrible thrilling things that made up the French Revolution.

And when she was most melancholy about her parents, he took her to the best pâtisseries and bought her the most beautiful petit fours. She would eat them until she bounced from the walls on a sugar high.

Sometimes he smiled.

Paris did that to him - made him _almost_ whole.

Albert Wesker was a man she would have been happy to call her real father. He was more intelligent than anyone she'd ever met, he was handsome, he was proud, and he was quiet.

And if _he_ was evil embodied, she thought, then she would be okay in the world.

That was the most important thing he'd given her: the knowledge that she would be okay.

* * *

She began tearing up at the sight of his tight, haunted script.

She knew what the letter would say, knew that the day had been coming, could hear it in his voice.

_Dearest -_

_I have raised you to the best of my abilities. I know you have wanted for things I am unable to provide. I hope that in your adulthood, you will find it in your heart to forgive my inadequacy as a guardian._

_The guilt of your parents' deaths has been with me all of these years. I am a monster, in more than one sense of the word. Know that I have not gotten away with it, though. There are ghosts that find me, even in my sleep._

_I will not allow my ghosts to find you._

_You do not deserve to bear witness to my plans as they unfold in coming years. You are clean and I refuse to tarnish the shine of your youth. I ruined your father and thought nothing of it then. Now, I think of it every day._

_You will not be a casualty in my war._

_There is a buffer in place to meet your needs without being connected to our past. You know the accounts and you have privileged access to everything that is mine. Your apartment is ready at Harvard. Please keep in mind that education is a priority._

(Through tears, Sherry rolled her eyes.)

_I will be in touch soon._

_Be strong and think of a future that has no room for death or suffering. Our future._

_You are with me always,_

_A.W._

* * *

_Day 138._

"Yes. I know."

He was on the phone again.

Not with a scientist.

No. This person was special enough to get his soft voice. Jill listened, tried to imagine who would be worth that to him.

"You must stay where you are. I'll be there soon. Did you stock up like I told you to?"

He got off the hotel bed, began to pace.

Jill bit her nails.

"You have nothing to be... No. It cannot break into an apartment."

He was lying to the person on the other end.

The monsters could break into anything.

Jill jumped, having bitten one nail down to the quick. She watched a drop of blood well up.

Her chest ached; the plate was hot to the touch. Hungry.

He was late. She wished he would just get off the damned phone and shut the plate up, shut her mind up.

"I have some business to attend to before I can get to you. Just stay there. Don't leave for anything."

He listened.

"You know I feel the same."

She watched him close his eyes, everything seeming to leave him then.

"It's not right for me... to say those words."

Jill strained to hear him as he walked away.

"I cannot. Don't ask that of me... Just be strong... Shhh... Don't cry, don't cry..."

* * *

_Day 145._

Jill watched Wesker take the stairs. Two at a time.

She looked at the brownstone apartment building in the middle of Cambridge, Massachusetts.

_Who was it that lived here?_

* * *

_On the second day of their freedom from Chris, they were literary connoisseurs and time travelers._

Wesker was eating Cheetos.

The orange dust all over his fingers.

He would occasionally offer her some... and then rip the bag away when she reached for them.

Eventually, she stopped falling for his joke.

She was laying next to him, reading a trashy romance novel.

"What's this one about?" He spoke with his mouth full. Crumbs fell out.

She brushed them off of her book. "Hey, slow down with that." Turned the page. "It's my favorite. Zsadist's story."

He laughed loudly. "_Zsadist_? Truly, Jill? What next - _Masochistmo_?"

She was offended, hugging the book to her chest. "Uh, yes, his name _is_ Zsadist. And laugh all you want, but he was a vampire-blood-sex-slave. It's very sad."

Wesker looked skeptical. She smiled at how stupid the premise of the bodice-ripper sounded out loud.

"Read it to me, Jill."

"... _No_." Turned the page. "Absolutely not."

"Then let me." He held his hand out.

"There's Cheeto shit all over your fingers. No."

He wiped it on her arm then. She wiggled away - disgusted, amused. He licked and sucked the rest of it off his fingertips. Then tried to wipe his sticky hand on her again.

She tossed the book at him. "Christ, take it!"

"Thank you. Glasses, please." He picked the novel up and flipped through the pages, pausing on any she'd dog-eared. She put his glasses on for him. "Hmmm... Let's see..."

He was expressionless for a moment. And then his eyebrows jolted up. He brought the book closer to his face. She watched as he mouthed the words, fast.

His nostrils flared as his eyes darted back and forth down the page.

"My my, Jill. You've been keeping this from me?"

She blushed, and then grew angry that she was blushing.

Wesker licked his lips, half-way to smile, and began to read.

"... As he lifted his head and swallowed, the growl of ecstasy he made stopped her heart in her chest. Their eyes met."

He paused to look at Jill. She sank further away, embarrassed. When she was sufficiently flushed, he went on.

"... A release was coming for him. Just as it had in the bathroom when she'd held on as he pumped. Only _hotter._ _Wilder._ Out of control. "Oh, _Jesus_!" He hollered -"

She tried to yank the book back from him. "Okay. You get the point, Al. I'm humiliated. Good job."

He held it up and away from her, pushing her with his free hand. He smiled, still reading as expressively as he could.

"Their bodies were _slapping_ together and he was mostly blind and he was _sweating_ all over her and the bonding scent was _a screaming roar_ in his nose... And she called his name and seized up under him. Her core grabbed onto him in spasms that _milked_ him until -"

She finally succeeded, wrenching poor Zsadist, the Vampire-Blood-Sex-Slave, from Wesker's grip.

He was grinning like an idiot.

"So there. Now you know." She settled back down next to him, their bare shoulders touching.

"Those stories kept you warm all these months?" He asked.

She nodded, book in her lap.

"You never came to me. I would have done a better job than words on a page, villainous and foul as I am."

She studied him. He spread his long toes, her foot on top of his. "Yeah, well, you never came to me either."

He rested his head on the wall, took off his glasses, set them aside.

"You should read to me, Jill," he said.

"All of it?" She asked, finding her place again.

"Whatever you feel is pertinent." He closed his eyes and waited.

"I'm almost done. I'll read you the end."

"Alright. The end. Zsadist's happily ever after. Please."

She cleared her throat (a habit).

"She crushed the paper to her heart, then launched herself at him, hitting his chest so hard he stumbled back. As his arms came around her with hesitation, as if he didn't have any idea what she was doing or why, she wept openly..."

Wesker hummed, as if he understood. Jill continued.

"In all her preparations for this meeting, the one thing she never considered was that the two of them might have some sort of future..."

* * *

"You perv." She laid the blue thong on the floor, smirking. "I knew it."

He'd brought out The Box for her.

He never intended to show her what he had, hidden away. But as they lay, talking in the dark, talking in their warmth, he felt compelled.

She paged through the news paper clippings. Her obituaries. She was surprised there were so many. All those people who cared. Now on the opposite end.

"It's so weird. I... I mean, I was alive for all of this. But I wasn't there. It's a bizarre feeling - looking in." She spread out the articles.

Wesker sat on the bed, watching her. "Looking in was all I did for more than a decade."

She dug, an archeologist of her own life.

Wesker saw her stop moving; one of her hands going to her chest, protective. He knew she'd found the plate.

"It's the past, Jill." Softly.

She nodded, but she couldn't unknit her eyebrows. He hated her concern.

"Here." He was up then, walking around her and the fragile artifacts that made up her secret identity.

He opened the louver doors to his closet.

Pushed through his clothes to the back.

Along the wall, he lifted a few pairs of neatly folded pants, pulling out something underneath.

When he turned to her again, she smiled and set the chest plate down.

"You saved that?" She was amazed.

* * *

"Jesus Christ. Did I really gain that much weight? It won't go up."

He was laughing. "Lay on the bed."

She did, her legs dangling, feet swinging.

He worked the zipper, tugging it.

She held her breath, sucking in so he wouldn't catch her skin.

He was smiling; it _was_ stuck. "I believe we have reached maximum zippage, Jill."

And then she was laughing. "Really?"

"Yes."

She stood, the material of the suit so strange on her skin. It clung to her and rubbed uncomfortably.

She looked at Wesker, pulling on the fabric. "How did I do anything in this?"

He crossed his arms. "Well, recall that you wore it before you developed _those_."

A nod to her chest.

She stared at herself in the battle suit.

Ridiculous cleavage - the zipper stopped in some glorious limbo right above her navel.

She turned, three-quarter view in the mirror.

"You look a bit like Excella from that angle."

She shot him a glare.

"It's just the fertility drugs. Now that you're weaning off, your body will return," he said.

"It's like the porn version of me." She saw herself from every way possible.

Wesker rubbed the back of his neck. "Indeed."

"Not bad, huh?" Her hands on her hips. A pose.

All those curves.

"Not bad at all." His sultry reply. "Or maybe very bad..."

She stopped admiring her reflection. "Hey. Gimme that." She pointed to the chest plate.

Wesker hesitated. "Jill..."

"No, really. Give it to me. I wanna see."

He relented, sighing.

In the mirror, she bit her bottom lip, chewed.

She held the jewel up to chest, where it had been imbedded years before.

It glittered in the light of the bunk.

She thought she felt it throb.

A moment of fear.

"There. I can handle it." Not entirely convincing.

He stood to her right, watching.

She swallowed. "This was how I looked?"

"Yes. You were something else." He seemed to go back in time. "_We_ were something else. Chris's face... when he saw you... I would have paid for it."

She nodded, but didn't remember.

The both of them were transfixed on her image.

She wavered, stepping back. He grabbed her arm.

"I'm really dizzy."

"Shhh... here - sit."

He led her to the bed, easing her down. She dropped the plate.

"Are you alright?"

"No... I can't breathe..." She pulled on the zipper. "I can't breathe." She fanned herself.

"Lay back."

She began to hyperventilate. "Oh God. It won't come off! Get it off! Get it off! Fuck!"

Her hands clawed at the suit.

"Jill, relax. Stop."

She screamed, arching up. He couldn't get her to stop raking her fingers over the zipper.

"It won't come off! Help me! Get it off! I'm dying!"

He pinned her then, held her face still. She stared at him, terrified. "Listen to me. You're having a panic attack. I'm going to remove this but you have to let me. Okay? Yes? Give me something."

She nodded, breathing through her nose, erratic and fast.

He took either side of the suit in his hands and tore it.

Ripped the damned thing in half.

Pulled her arms out.

Helped it down her body and off.

She was shaking and naked again, biting her hand.

He stared at her, what was left of the suit on the floor.

"Jill... I didn't realize..." He started, but it went nowhere.

She looked at him, hurt.

He wrapped her in a blanket and then laid down next to her.

She curled up, burrowing into him.

Shaking pathetically.

* * *

_Day 145._

"Sherry?"

He pushed the door open slowly. It had been ajar.

Every door down the corridor had been ajar.

Furniture torn to shreds, apartment turned over.

He was too late.

He imagined her screams.

_"I have some business to attend to..."_

* * *

He pulled away from the door, took three uneasy steps back before falling to his knees.

Deep sobs.

No tears.

Just pitiful, human sounds as he crawled on the cold floor.

A worm.

* * *

_"I'm really scared. It's all over the news."_

_"Yes. I know."_

_"You know? Everyone's dying! Isn't there someplace safe? One of them was spotted 200 miles away!"_

_"You must stay where you are. I'll be there soon. Did you stock up like I told you to?"_

_"Yeah... but I'm... I should be with you... I'm -"_

_"You have nothing to be -"_

_"Are you serious right now? I live in an apartment! Can they... do they climb?"_

_"No. They can't break into an apartment."_

_"When will you be here?" She began to cry. "I'm really scared. Please come soon."_

_"I have some business to attend to before I can get to you. Just stay there. Don't leave for anything."_

_"Please hurry..." She wept. "I love you, Dad."_

_"You know I feel the same." He whispered, closed his eyes in pain._

_"Then tell me. You never tell me."_

_"It's not right for me... to say those words."_

_"Please... I love you. Just say it - once."_

_"I cannot. Don't ask that of me. Just be strong... Shhh... Don't cry, don't cry..."_

* * *

He emerged, wiping his nose, walking quickly, forcefully.

Jill stood. "You find them?"

He shook his head, getting back in the car.

He looked to be his normal, ornery self.

She was confused. He'd been so adamant about finding whoever lived there.

"Well... do you want to look for -" She tried.

"Get in the fucking car, Valentine!"

His eyes flashed behind the sunglasses.

* * *

That night, in a nameless hotel, he tore the jewel from her chest - freeing her.

When she clung to him, he clung to her.

And they both bled.

* * *

_On the third day of their freedom from Chris, they were only lovers._

He rocked her slowly.

Her thighs pushed back.

Laying on the lab table.

They moved, almost gently.

He touched her almost sweetly.

They were almost... real.

He pulled her up, an arm around her.

She looked into his eyes.

"Is this how he is with you?" He whispered against her mouth.

She shook her head, kissing him.

He broke away, pressed his forehead to hers, rocked his hips. "How then?"

"Al... not now. Don't." She was afraid his jealousy would ruin what they had found.

He stopped, looking at her. "I need to know."

* * *

In her bunk, in _Chris's bunk_, she stared at Wesker.

She lifted something shiny off the dresser she and Chris shared.

Came to him, the gift in hand.

It went over his head.

She adjusted it so it laid perfectly on his bare chest.

He looked down.

REDFIELD

CHRISTOPHER

311131488 BSAA

AB NEG

CATH

Wesker wore his dogtags well.

* * *

Jill pushed her fingers through his hair, silent.

She messed up the straight blond strands - piecing them out, twisting some of them.

She fussed until he was perfect.

* * *

He stared at himself in the mirror on the dresser.

Naked except for the dogtags around his neck.

His hair out of place - pushed forward, falling over his face, textured where it had once been smooth.

Behind him, Jill laid her cheek to his shoulder blade.

Her hands spread out over his chest.

She hugged him hard, her eyes squeezed shut.

He moved slowly, the way he thought The Other would.

His hands over hers, holding her there.

_A hero._

He stared at Chris Redfield in the mirror.

* * *

Jill let him lead.

They swayed together.

No music.

Wesker's hand on her lower back, his other holding hers.

She buried her face in his throat, inhaled deep.

As they moved, she couldn't remember who it was she was dancing with.

She didn't care.

* * *

Jill showed him how he should kiss.

He mimicked her until he got it right.

_The Savior's Kiss._

He practiced until she moaned against his mouth.

The way she moaned against Chris's.

* * *

Wesker was kneeling.

The mattress creaked under his unfamiliar weight.

He waited for her to show him how.

He'd left the lights on.

She looked at him, her heart beating so hard - aching and falling apart and shattering and coming back together and finding itself and _breaking_.

And then she turned over, on her hands and knees.

More open and vulnerable than she'd ever let herself be with _him_.

"Please," she said.

She whimpered when he took her.

When Wesker took her.

The dogtags cool on her back, his skin so hot where they met.

She pulled his hand down, beneath her, between her thighs, to help her over the edge.

His rhythm was a perfect match.

She cried out, fighting tears.

He kissed the back of her neck, bit the back of her neck.

It was so good and sad.

Both of them starving and lonely and reduced_._

_"Jill." _Chanted over and over like some sickly prayer for mercy.

She could have sworn it was Chris.

* * *

They pressed so close together.

Their pale skin and pale hair and pale souls identical, impossible to separate.

She looked into his eyes - looked so hard and long that she couldn't tell the difference between amber and blue.

"And what now?" He whispered. "What would he do?"

She moved his hand so that it rested on her hip.

His thumb rubbed an invisible circle there.

"And you, Jill. What would you do?"

She shivered under his stare.

"I would tell him that I love him."

She looked down, the tags in her hand. She ran her fingers over the raised print.

"What would he say then?" Wesker asked, watching her. "After you tell him that you love him."

"He would say it back."

"Because he's a hero." He said sorrowfully.

"Because he means it. Because he _does_."

Her eyes moved up then, shy.

There was a moment when it would have been possible to go back.

To step away from the window and Chris and the stormy ocean and the cold.

That moment had passed.

"I love you," Jill said.

"I love you." Wesker answered.

* * *

_2007._

"It's a matter of harnessing _chi_."

Her strike was good. Form was near flawless. It was true power she was lacking.

He watched as she performed the melee over and over again.

_Ghost butterfly_.

"You can do that until you die of exhaustion, Jill, but it won't change until you acknowledge your latent strength."

She glared under the mask, her teeth gritted.

"There are two forms of _chi_. One we are born with, the other what our body uses to create energy. Both are important... but the birth _chi_, the internal _chi_, is greater."

He walked around her, observing. She kept going, grunting at the end of each strike.

"Birth _chi_ is the power of intention. It is the follow-through. It is the strength."

He stepped in front of her, easing down into a preparatory stance.

"You can attack on a surface level, that is, physically harm your enemies. Or, you can obliterate them by attacking them on a _sub-atomic_ level."

She watched through her new ruby eyes.

"The art of harnessing _chi_ is practiced across all cultures."

Slowly, he pulled his hands back, brought them close to his chest, palms out.

"The Egyptian _Uraeus, _for example, is a cobra, coiled to strike - in the position of the third eye. This _serpent_, if you will, is where your _chi_ lies. And this is where your intention must issue from."

He forced his elbows straight, an inhuman growl on the execution.

_Ghost butterfly._

Jill fell back, thrown to the floor by a wave of energy. She gasped. He hadn't even touched her.

Wesker recovered, offered her a gloved hand.

"The power of intention, Ms. Valentine."

* * *

They performed _Kururunfa_ forms together, the _ki hap_ at the end of each position the only sound in the darkened gym.

Slow, slow, fast, slow. Fast, fast. Slow.

Each movement had a purpose, had a speed, had a breath, had a _chi_.

She was his shadow, his ever-serving rib.

She had never been so awake and the plate on her chest glowed in approval.

Her body and mind aligned with his, and Jill Valentine harnessed her_ chi_.

* * *

_On the day Chris came home, something was changed between them._

She woke up the next morning.

He was staring down at her.

Already showered.

Wearing all black.

Anything casual, anything soft in him... gone.

He waited until she had both eyes open.

"I think it would be wise for you to get up and get dressed now. He could be home at any time and we have to clean."

She looked up at him - searching for something.

(Some kind of recognition? An acknowledging of the night before?)

But he was hollow.

She stared. He grew anxious.

His hand went to his throat, self-conscious.

He felt the necklace; almost winced when he touched the metal.

He yanked on the dogtags (_the noose_), couldn't get them off fast enough, set them on the dresser.

Careful, spidery fingers arranged the chain.

Jill watched him, pulling the comforter around herself, suddenly... painfully aware.

He nodded curtly, and stepped backwards.

Both of them so distrustful, it ached.

Then he turned and left.

She sat on the edge of the bed.

Jill couldn't think of a time when her regret had ever been more intense.

* * *

"Did I, uh... did I miss something?" Chris asked. "You all have a party?"

The lab was a mess.

Wesker was picking up.

He was in a terrible mood, wouldn't speak.

Chris watched him snatching things off the ground, tossing things in the trash.

There were Cheetos everywhere.

* * *

Chris sat down on their bed.

The sheets were still damp from the washer.

Someone had done that in a hurry.

He frowned and pushed the unpleasant thought out of his head.

"So what'd ya catch?" Jill asked as she swept the floor, around and under the bed.

"Nothing. I just sat out there and thought."

She brushed loose hair out of her face. "You didn't hunt?"

"Nah. We don't really need it. Besides, it woulda rotted by the time I dragged it back here."

She nodded, sweeping the dust into a pan. "What'd you think about?"

"Everything. All of this." He gestured around the room. "What did you two do? This place looks like a bomb hit it... oh, wait..."

He smiled at his own joke.

"I didn't do much," she said.

_(We had sex all over the bunker._

_Wesker read my erotica out loud._

_And then we put your IDs on him, made him you._

_Because he wanted to be you, just for a night._

_He's always wanted to be you._

_But this morning, he woke me up and acted like none of it happened._

_And I think I might be dying of this._

_Dying of everything. Of all of this.)_

She shook her head and leaned on the broom. "Yeah, nothing really. I did a lot of thinking too."

Chris glanced at the dresser. "Oh. I totally forgot these."

He pulled the dogtags over his head and adjusted them so that they laid perfectly on his chest.

Jill stared, her eyes watering.

* * *

_March, 1997._

He set a piece of paper, face down, on her desk.

She looked up, surprised and embarrassed.

She shoved the latest copy of Cosmo in the closest drawer.

"Sir," she said.

"Ms. Valentine, I've asked you several times to pull... that back." He looked at her hair. "I'm not sure what exactly they required of you in the military, but you're a police officer now and you need to be more conscious of these things."

"Yes, Captain. I'm sorry. It won't happen again." Her eyes were on what he'd brought her.

He leaned in. "I came across this. I'm aware you are estranged from him, but I thought it prudent that you knew." He slid the paper closer to her.

* * *

At his desk, he tried not to watch her.

He could not help himself.

Around her, the rest of the office went on - a flurry of paper, conversations, Redfield dribbling a basketball as he pecked at the keyboard.

He saw her tuck her hair behind her ear.

She read to herself.

Her back hunched then, as if she'd been struck, unexpectedly.

Nearby, Chris laughed at something Brad said and Barry answered a phone while Rebecca sifted through a substantial stack of files.

Jill though, was still.

Her shoulders up to her ears.

Her fingers shook. Just a little.

She folded the paper he'd given her then. Ripped it in half. Ripped it in half again.

She made a neat little pile.

It went in the trash.

She straightened her shirt and then sat upright in her chair, her back suddenly rigid.

She opened a file and began working on it.

The office moved on about her, a dull roar of activity.

Wesker knew he'd just watched her heart break.

She was the most interesting creature he'd ever seen.

So lovely in her pain.

* * *

That night, he closed up the station.

Keys in hand, folders under one arm, he passed by her empty desk, the little green light left on.

He looked down into her trash.

There, the ripped up paper lay, neatly disposed of.

It had let her know her father had been sentenced to 20 years in an upstate prison.

_Grand larceny, organized crime involvement, battery and assault with a deadly weapon._

She'd folded it, torn it to bits.

He knew the feeling.

He'd done the same thing with most of his emotions.

They weren't so different.

No, not so different at all.

He reached over her desk and turned off the light.

* * *

Late that night, she walked out to the lab - her sleepy voice and bare feet.

Wesker was reading his journal.

He didn't even look up.

"Are you coming to bed?"

"Not tonight."

She waited.

"You're not coming to bed?"

He sighed. "No, Jill, I am not coming to bed. Stop asking."

She felt her chest cave in, her hands sweat.

He wouldn't even look at her.

She cracked first, and lost all the power for it. "You can't take it back. You told me you love me. Don't punish me for it."

He frowned, finally daring to meet her eyes.

He was so clear, lucid. "I _never_ said those words to you."

_(Ghost Butterfly)_

He watched her stumble back.

Mortally wounded.

"Al..." She begged. "Don't be like that. Please."

_(Obliterated)_

"Perhaps it is...," he said, setting the book down. "That you've confused me with Chris Redfield. Hmm?"

She shook her head, not comprehending his cruelty.

_(The power of intention)_

There was a moment when it would have been possible for them to go back.

To stop playing games and let the wounds heal and trust each other.

That moment had passed.

"Now... Have a good night, Ms. Valentine."

* * *

He stayed up all night, reading and re-reading his journal.

It all looked foreign to him now. Nothing registered.

He was outside of his own life, looking in.

He read all that he had written.

Trying desperately to remember _who_ he was.

_Albert Wesker._

He wrote his own name, trying to feel it - in the motion of the hand, in the curve of the letters, in the hardness of the _meaning_.

_Albert Wesker._

But it didn't feel like anything.

It didn't mean anything.

To anyone.

* * *

Something had broken down there.

On a sub-atomic level.

In the _chi_.

The three of them knew it_._

Most of all, Wesker.

* * *

_No one knows what it's like_

_To be the bad man_

_To be the sad man_

_Behind blue eyes._

_No one knows what it's like_

_To be hated_

_To be fated_

_To telling only lies._

_- "Behind Blue Eyes"_


	29. End No 1

_Never deprive someone of hope; it might be all they have. _

_~ H. Jackson Brown Jr._

* * *

The world ended sometime mid-July.

It was a day like any other.

Like the day Albert Wesker found his grave in a burning Raccoon forest.

Like the day Jill Valentine broke a window and plunged into the abyss.

A day like any other.

A good day to put dead spirits to rest.

* * *

2010.

"Claire? Sis?"

They were standing, two shadows of the past, on the remains of a bombed Oregon street.

She didn't answer, her arms clinging to him instead. She was small in his hands – too small – too many bony lumps. As she cried, her whole body shook.

"I was sure... I thought - how did you live?"

She looked up, but there was no appreciation in her eyes.

Only despair in her voice as she wailed, "Why are you still alive?"

Because deep down, she was just a little girl who clung to the hope that her brother would never come back for her.

The hope that told her that if he never came back, there was no reason for her to keep surviving in this Hell.

So a part of her couldn't forgive him for forcing her to go on.

* * *

Jill told him once, when they were entangled in the sheets, of the time before she accepted reality for what it truly was.

She showed him the marks on her wrists. They were a memory of her own decision, and his power to take it away.

She told him about Excella Gionne, weeping in that cell over the only way she thought she could escape. It was a reminder of someone else's resolution, and his power to crush it.

She spoke about the years to come, a blur of struggling, rebellion and finally, of resignation. Because he had the power to turn her hate into love.

And Chris realized later, that she had told him all these things not because she confided in him. She told him because it was a display of power too. A wicked kind of power to protect Albert Wesker from the man who had come to kill him.

And he believed her for a while.

If she hadn't unwittingly revealed the Serpent.

Because she too had tried to kill a God.

* * *

"I can't believe that you made it."

Claire had said that at least five times. He wondered how long it would take her to accept that he was really there.

"I came back. For you."

She snickered at that. It made him feel uneasy.

"Good. Good that you only came back for me." She pointed out the window of her little hideout. "Because there's nothing else left here... except _me_."

And there really wasn't. The building reeked of rotting corpses, because by the time Uroboros hit the city, it killed for pleasure, not for hunger.

Some called it mercy, because they wouldn't see the faces of their loved ones in those monsters.

Claire called it a crime, because she had to walk through the graveyard of bodies every time she left her hiding spot.

* * *

He didn't really know what was supposed to happen.

If he'd just fall over dead. Spasm out of life. Go peacefully in his sleep.

It was a torture to watch the clock tick away with no results.

Wesker sat hunched over his microscope.

Jill read a novel.

Chris watched the clock.

Tick tock.

Wesker sat.

Jill read.

Chris watched.

Tick tock.

Tick tock.

"Jill!"

She and Chris jumped. She stared at him.

"Jesus, what?"

"I've done it!" He shouted, his eyes still on the microscope. "This is it! I've done it!"

It took her several seconds. Then recognition. Then shock. "Oh my God... I thought you... I thought you stopped."

Wesker was rustling frantically through papers, moving things on the lab table. "One last time. I promised myself one last time. And I've won."

She stood. "It's ready? It'll work?"

He finally looked up at her. He was even smiling. "Yes, it will work! Why wouldn't it! It's ready - your body has been ready."

Chris crossed his arms. "What will work?"

But he already knew the answer.

* * *

There were nightmares. She screamed in her sleep. She called for all the people who died and left her living.

He whispered as he held her, but he had no place in her dreams.

One night, neither of them could sleep. They stared at the bloodied ceiling and pretended to see the stars.

"Why are you still hanging around, Chris?" It was more accusation than question. "Just go away. Please."

All she really wanted was to lie down next to the bodies Uroboros had left behind.

* * *

"Wesker... don't." Jill was terrified. "Don't." She turned to Chris. "It's nothing. Really."

"He should know. I owe so much of it to him, after all." His voice was low then, as sinister as it had been six years before, in Africa.

"Yeah, let Hoss tell me what he figured out, Jill. Don't ruin his fun." He smiled. An eerie mirror of Wesker.

"I'm so glad you'd like to know, Chris. Let's start at the beginning, shall we?"

"Al..." She interrupted, slipped up and used his nickname in front of The Other. "Your nose."

Wesker glared, touched his upper lip. Confusion as he looked down at his fingers.

Blood.

A lot of it.

He wiped again and again, rubbing the red on his jeans.

It dripped to the cement floor.

Wesker looked up at Jill with something else on his bloody face.

Fear.

Tick tock.

* * *

"Head back, Al. Put your head back."

She was reaching up, holding a paper towel to his nose.

The blood seeped through.

She swore and they walked to the bathroom, slow.

Chris stood in the doorway, leaned against the frame, watching as Jill took care of the monster.

"Jesus Christ. What is going on?" she asked. They were holding a wash cloth to his face.

They sank to the floor, Wesker's head back against the wall.

It wasn't working.

She tossed the soaked cloth in the sink.

It flopped in the basin, wet with blood, splattering the mirror.

"Chris - c'mon. Shit. Gimme something else. Shit."

Chris handed her a bath towel.

Wesker began to cough then, the blood running down his throat.

He was choking it up.

She panicked. "Oh God! What's wrong? What happened to you?"

Wesker shook his head, the blood painting the floor. He couldn't breathe. He was dizzy.

"What did you wanna tell me... Al?" Chris asked, a smile on his lips.

"Shut the fuck up! Shut up!" She turned on him, screaming.

Wesker was coughing. Blood on his breath. Blood on the tile.

"Help me, Jill." Blood. "Injection."

He needed another shot.

Something had gone wrong.

A shot would make it better.

Jill was in hysterics. "Get me the fucking case, Chris! Now!"

He was more than happy to oblige to that, walking... almost skipping down the hall.

He brought it back, clicked it open, placed a syringe in her hand.

Jill was the one who administered the serum to Wesker.

She made him hold out a shaky arm as she tied the rubber band around his bicep.

He coughed, violently.

A vein bulged.

Jill inserted the needle.

Chris looked at the clock.

She pressed the plunger.

Wesker's eyes widened, his bloody mouth dropped open. He must have felt it.

"You." He growled. His eyes, unfocused as they were, sought Chris, leaning on the door frame.

Standing, arms crossed, as if he was watching something unfold on television.

The detachment, the apathy, the removal of God.

"You?" Wesker gurgled.

Chris nodded and Jill wept.

"Please Al, please. No. No no no..." She clung to him, his face in her hands. "No..."

Chris held vigil in the doorway while Wesker was slipping away, drowning in his own blood.

"_Tick tock. It's a clock. And yours just ran out of time."_Claire laughed.

* * *

Uroboros found them, two weeks later.

They hadn't left her apartment building.

They were easy prey.

The life in them stank more than any half-rotten corpses.

Claire found comfort in her brother's arms and promised him that if he wasn't afraid, she wouldn't be either.

He felt bad for her.

* * *

Jill jumped to her feet, had him by the collar.

"What did you do? What the fuck did you do, Chris?"

Her voice was so high-pitched, so loud it hurt both their ears.

"I didn't do anything." He was calm. "He did it...to himself."

"You fucking dog..." Wesker wheezed.

Chris snorted. "Oh please. You know that she tried to kill you too, don't you? She just couldn't get it right." He looked at her, accusing. "You want me to tell him, Jill?"

She was sobbing openly, trying to make the blood go away on Wesker's face.

"Al, there must be an antidote... there must be something...Al, please tell me. I'll do it. I'll do anything. Tell me how."

Chris laughed. "She was in your bed before she could figure it out though. See, all she had to do was just turn it around for it to work. Give you the full dose. And it knocked you out, man."

Chris made a motion, across his throat. "Now you're done. Cooked. Down for the count."

Wesker clenched his fists, his teeth bloody.

Jill was out of her mind.

"Lucky I was there. To help her, I mean. Someone had to."

She stopped dead in her tracks as she realized what she had done. Realized who was truly responsible for this.

She'd been the one who injected him.

"_Good job, Jill."_ Claire applauded. She clapped her hands, slow and loud.

"I guess we'll see if you're a god now, Captain." Chris said. "My bets are on no."

* * *

The monster took a while getting to them.

It turned over every body in its wake.

Uroboros didn't like cheaters.

* * *

Once the seizures started, Chris knew it was over.

There was no going back. Jill had to realize that too, after she was done turning the place upside down. She pulled over everything in the lab, searching for something, anything, to save him.

There was no way to help him.

He bent over the other man. Those reptile eyes emanated no more power.

They didn't glow, they didn't shine.

His pupils were black and wide - a man afraid to die.

"You deserved this," Chris said quietly. "So I'm not going to make it any easier for you."

He took Jill instead. Deadlocked her arms behind her back. Led her to Wesker, so she could bear witness.

She struggled, but it was for nothing.

He wouldn't let her ease him.

He held her still.

She writhed under his grasp and cried and pleaded.

He only let her go when the blood on the floor turned cold.

When they were certain that he was really dead.

* * *

Chris Redfield killed Albert Wesker five years after the End of the World.

And he forced Jill Valentine to watch.

* * *

It was on their floor now. On the corridor.

Claire shivered in his hands.

Promise or not, she was terrified.

There was a monster waiting outside the door.

But Claire was more afraid of her brother, who kept whispering to her that it would be quick and painless and if she just held her breath long enough, she wouldn't even have to scream.

She could feel his tears falling on her shoulder.

He told her, over and over, how sorry he was.

When Uroboros took down the door, he placed his hand over her mouth and helped her hold her breath.

* * *

She hunched over him, rocking back and forth, back and forth.

The clock on the wall kept ticking.

Her tears mingled with his blood on the floor.

A final lovers' union.

Claire said it was a perfect ending to a story nobody would ever hear.

"_And you better get the ball rolling, bro. It's not like you have all the time in the world."_

* * *

In that moment of panic, of terror, he fled. As Uroboros lashed out, he jumped the window, ran, and cowered in some godforsaken place until he was sure it was gone.

He returned to the building when the sun was high. Light entered through the jagged remains of the glass window.

He crawled back to her.

He swept her up in his arms, cradled her, told her that it was over.

That she could stop holding her breath now.

He held her in his arms long after the distant screams faded and humanity handed the reins of the world to its viral successor.

He promised that he would always protect her, no matter what happened.

He swore that he would never leave her alone again.

If she would only wake up.

But she never did.

So he was forced to take her hand in his and help her write a suicide letter.

* * *

Jill changed from grieving widow to black widow in a matter of seconds.

Wesker's body made a wet sound as she dropped it back into the blood.

She flung herself at Chris, syringe in hand.

The needle broke as it scraped off his rib.

"You killed him! You killed him! _What the fuck did you do, Chris?"_

* * *

Over the years, memories morphed.

Sheva. She died in his arms. But Wesker was responsible for her death. Right?

Claire. She died in his arms. But it had been Uroboros that took her. Right?

Wesker. Because of the serum. Chris hadn't even been able to do that himself. Right?

And Jill? Who was he going to blame that on, when they were the last two people alive?

It had been her decision to go. Right?

Then why did she scream?

* * *

Her accusations replayed inside his head.

_What the fuck did you do, Chris?_

He tried to convince himself that he'd done the right thing.

But this was far from the happy ending that was promised to heroes.

She half-whimpered, half-gurgled. Blowing blood bubbles from her nose and mouth.

He'd done it before he even realized what was happening.

He stared at her - as shocked as she was.

His hunting knife lodged in her throat.

Life fled her in hurried, hot waves.

A last sacrifice for her dead god.

* * *

Five years after the end of the world Chris Redfield killed Jill Valentine.

And his dead sister forced him to watch.

* * *

He pushed a strand of blonde hair behind her ear.

He smudged her face ugly.

Crimson fingerprints all over.

He painted her his dream-monster in red.

No tear that followed could ever wash her face clean again.

* * *

Claire rested a hand on his shoulder. He was stiff from sitting, the muscles in his neck aching as he looked up at her.

Was she happy now?

Was she finally satisfied?

But sitting beside him was just the girl he'd met last time - the one that wanted to lay next to the bodies in the hallway instead of struggling on against hope.

She'd come back for him, just as he had for her, all those years ago.

And she asked the question again.

This time though, he finally had an answer for it.

"Why are you still sticking around, Chris?"

* * *

Tick tock.

The clock on the wall kept ticking. Long after.

* * *

It was a day like any other.

Like the day Albert Wesker found his grave in the burning Raccoon forest.

Like the day Jill Valentine broke a window and plunged into the abyss.

Like the day Chris Redfield took his life in an underground bunker, because he knew the answer, but there was nobody to tell it to.

It was a day like any other.

A good day to put dead spirits to rest.

* * *

_Footfalls echo in the memory,_

_Down the passage which we did not take,_

_Towards the door we never opened_

_Into the rose-garden._

_-T.S Eliot_

* * *

**THE END**

* * *

**Well folks. This is it.**

**Not quite what you imagined it to be? That's what I thought. With three authors, we couldn't decide on one ending either. So we just decided to write three. True to old Resident Evil style.**

**This one was the Chaed-ian ending. I hope you liked it. I surely had a lot of fun writing it, and the rest of the story too. Redfields rock, even dead (no offense, Claire).**

**Since this is my last AN for this story, a huge thank you to everyone who reviewed and stuck with us through good times and bad ones.**

**As a last point, I would like to address my lovely co-authors. Thaleron sadly only stayed with us until half of the story. It was a great, yet short experience to write with you. As for sadlittletiger. You know you rock, girl. I never believed there was somone as sick, wicked and crazy as I am, but then I found you. It was an honor to write with you. We had a lot of fun, good laughs and hilarious misunderstandings during this time. Here's to many more and a long lasting friendship.**

**Cheers and love to all,**

**Chaed**


	30. End No 2

**For Thaleron.**

* * *

_Train roll on, on down the line,_

_Won't you please take me far away?_

_Now I feel the wind blow outside my door,_

_Means I'm leaving my woman behind._

_Tuesday's gone with the wind._

_My woman's gone with the wind._

* * *

No one seemed to be in a talkative mood.

It was strange. They were all strange now.

Chris sat and listened to their deafening silence, their unspoken punishment.

There was a clock on the west wall of the lab.

It ticked... ticked... ticked relentlessly.

Every second that passed was just another lost grain of sand in the timer.

Jill was eating Ramen noodle soup. Beef.

The spoon clanged against the side of the bowl with each sip she took.

Claire sat between them. They couldn't see her there. Filing her nails, the red leather vest rubbing on itself with every movement of her arms.

Wesker read an astrology book. He must have been reading about himself, because Jill was a Cancer, and Chris certainly wasn't a Scorpio.

When he turned the page he always made a strange sound, feeling the paper between the pads of his thumb and forefinger.

A smudge sound.

"_You __know, __I __think __you __should __say __something, __bro. __It__'__s __time,__"_ Claire said, holding out her hand to inspect the job she'd done on her nails.

Jill clanged.

Claire filed her nails, watching him.

Wesker smudged.

Jill clanged.

Claire filed her nails, watching him.

Wesker smudged.

Jill clanged.

"I read your fucking diary."

His voice was like taking a hammer to a pane of glass.

Chris just couldn't do it anymore. Any of it.

Couldn't do the _something_ between Jill and Wesker, couldn't do Claire's nagging.

His sister smiled and nodded._ "__Go __on.__"_

"I read it all. I know everything."

"_There. __It__'__s __out __now. __Doesn__'__t __that __feel __good?__"_ Claire asked.

"I know what you're doing to me. And I know what you're doing to each other."

Wesker's eyes narrowed. His pupils became enormous, almost eclipsing the sunbursts around them.

His lip curled, cheek twitching.

Jill leapt up, between them, pushing Wesker back, as if she could stop the monster.

Her claw-fingers in the shirt he wore, her face in front of him. "Al... Al, please..."

"You... fucked me and then you fucked him." Chris accused, pointing at her. "You tricked me."

She turned slowly to him, whispered. "Chris..."

Her eyes seemed to cloud over.

"No. Really. It's okay. Because I _know_ you now, Jill Valentine. I have your number down." He wiped his nose with the back of his hand, smiling. The brink of hysterical laughter or tears. "Does he know about you? What you did to him?"

Her mouth dropped open. He watched her heart fall to the floor and smash into a million pieces.

"_This __is __great. __He __has __no __clue. __None.__"_ Claire laughed.

"What did you do, Jill?" Wesker asked, voice low. A calm before the storm.

She backed away from him, the tears so close.

"_Jesus. __What __a __bunch __of __morons. __Thinkin__' __they __could __just __play __house __down __here __in __their __hidey-hole. __Such __bullshit.__"_ Claire walked slow circles around the table.

"Did you know she used to talk to a snake? There was a _snake_... in her head, man. You put it there. You crushed everything good in her." He was shaky, ready to jump. "She's ruined. You ruined her."

"What did you do?" He asked again, ignoring Chris.

"Now she's as goddamn dead and shriveled up as you."

"Jill." Wesker tried to bring her back.

She shook her head, crying. "I'm sorry, Al."

"_Do it. Tell her. Tell her what her boyfriend's been up to."_

"Don't apologize to him. He lied to you."

Wesker turned to Chris. "Do _not_ tread on me, Redfield..."

"It was all pretend, Jill. The p30."

Her expression faded, the blood draining out of her face.

Claire laughed and clapped._ "__That__'__ll __leave __a __mark.__"_

"He stopped giving it to you the night he pulled that... thing off your chest."

Her hands went to her mouth.

"Yeah. And then you kept doing what he said. You _listened_ to him. All by yourself." Chris looked at her, disgust. "What the hell kind of monster does that make _you_?"

Jill wept.

Deep, wracking sobs.

She had _killed_ people.

She had killed innocent people for _him_.

And all he'd really done was _ask_.

"_Oh __wow. __Look __at __princess. __Yeah, __now __she __feels __bad.__"_ Claire smiled.

Wesker stood, knocking the chair back, starting towards her. "Jill..."

She struck out at him. "Don't touch me! Don't put your fucking hands on me!"

Chris was in Wesker's face then, closer than he'd ever been, closer than he'd ever dared to be. "You wanna know what she did to _you_? Huh? She told me _all_ about that one night after we had sex."

Wesker stopped, pulling back.

"She tried to poison you, Captain. She started watering down your shit months ago. But it didn't work, did it Jill?"

Wesker looked at her.

"You would kill me?" He asked. Fragile. He sounded fragile.

She winced and cried; she couldn't speak.

Wesker was a statue. He didn't even breathe.

"You would kill me." He said it again, dazed.

"You lied to me!" She yelled back, gasping for air. "I trusted you!"

Claire fell back into the worn-out loveseat, throwing a leg over the arm. _"__Oh __man. __Shit __just __went __live.__"_

Wesker shook his head. "But I never tried to... kill you, Jill."

"Oh like hell you didn't! Raccoon, Wesker. You set us all up!" Chris broke in.

He had no reply. He could only watch her.

"He warned me." Jill stood, both hands in her hair. "He told me to go home that night."

Chris glared at them. "Fucking _rats_. Both of you. You've been in it together from the beginning, haven't you?"

"Yes. In some way or another." Wesker said it, unashamed, suddenly not so fragile. He looked at her then, saw her for the very first time. And he wasn't afraid. "You belong with me, Jill."

"_Wait. __Wait.__"_ Claire was confused and angry. _"__No. __That__'__s __not __right!__"_

"Over my dead body, cocksucker." Chris growled.

"_Oh, come on, Chris. You can't be serious. She's a traitor! Leave her!" _

"Jill, listen to me - I don't care. What we did to each other, it's the past. We'll leave it there." Wesker reasoned.

But she was already running down the hall.

* * *

"You need to make a decision, Jill!" Chris bellowed after her.

She pulled the zipper, furious.

She began shoveling clothes into the duffle bag.

Wesker stood in the doorway. "If you try to leave with him, Jill, so help me God, I will destroy you both."

She ignored him and kept packing, frantic.

And then Chris came to her. "We can leave him. We can leave now. He's not going to do anything. He's faking you out, Jill. He's a coward."

Wesker had him by the shirt collar. "You're the coward, Redfield. You left her to die. _You_ gave up on her. _I_ brought her back to life."

"You piece of shit! She wouldn't have died if it wasn't for your fuckin' games!"

Chris swung at him; Wesker dodged, a blur.

Fighting. Fighting over the last woman on Earth.

She pushed him when he got in her way. He stumbled back.

"Jill," he said.

"Jill," Chris said.

"_Jill!__"_ they said together.

She turned to them, her chest heaving. "Stop! I can't do this anymore!"

She screamed. "You're killing me!"

They stared at her.

"You're hurting me." Her voice was small. "Please."

Wesker reached for her first. "Come here, Jill."

She shook her head, stepping back.

"Let's go, baby. Let's leave. Come on." Chris begged, motioning to the door.

"I will fix this. You have to trust me, Jill. I will fix this, what we've done to each other - just like I've fixed everything else for us. All you have to do is let me." Wesker countered, so calm.

"You don't need him, Jill. He's a liar. Look at me." She refused. "Look at me, baby. I'm right here."

Wesker laughed. "Do you think he can protect you? The way I can? The way I have... for all these years?"

"He doesn't love you. Don't listen to him."

"You know how I feel. And you know I have always felt this way about you, Jill."

"I would follow you... anywhere. I would do anything -" Chris took a step forward.

She kicked the bag at her feet, frustration.

"Shut up! Shut the fuck up! I can't do this anymore!"

She picked up her things.

"Where will you go?" Wesker asked.

"I don't care. Away."

"Jill, you can't. I'll come with you." Chris grabbed her.

She wrenched her arm from him. "No."

"What? You want _him_ to go with you?"

Wesker smiled, smug. "Is that really a surprise, Chris?"

She slung the bag over her shoulder. "I'm leaving both of you."

* * *

They followed her up to the surface, fighting over who would take the ladder first.

They trailed her for the half-mile to the car, parked near the road.

They bickered noisily.

The car beeped when she unlocked it.

She opened the door.

She got in.

She closed the door.

She turned the ignition.

They stood, side by side.

Silenced.

Staring.

Stray dogs on the road.

And she couldn't.

She just _couldn__'__t_.

She punched the dashboard.

* * *

"Any of this?" Chris asked.

Wesker looked. "No."

They drenched it all.

"What about this?"

He held the book out.

Wesker took it. "Thank you."

Chris nodded. "You're welcome."

* * *

"You get everything?"

"Yes."

Wesker had the journal tucked under his arm. Chris tossed him the bag and climbed up.

Jill watched. "Let's get this show on the road then."

* * *

Wesker struck a match.

He held the flame to his book of secrets.

Jill made a sound, as if to protest.

But she stopped and she and Chris just watched.

Watched as he tossed it down into the bunker.

The pages fluttered as it fell, burning.

Like a dove on fire, its wings spread and beating the air desperately.

They could almost hear it cry.

* * *

The hatch spewed flames into the sunset.

"And what now?" He asked.

She leant on him, her cheek pressed to his hot shoulder.

Chris stood closer to the fire, his hand over his eyes, shielding against the light of the blaze.

She sighed. "Take us away from here, Al."

"To where, little snake?" He whispered.

"Home."

* * *

It was a four day drive back, between the distance and having to find new vehicles.

Four days to think.

Four days to talk and explain and hear.

Four days to forgive as much as they ever would... or could.

There were no more monsters after those four days.

Among them or otherwise.

* * *

They pulled up slowly, as if finding the city too fast would scare it away.

The cracked pavement sprouted wild grasses and flowers that swayed in the breeze.

Jill gripped the steering wheel, her knuckles aching from it.

Wesker brought his feet down off the dash and leaned forward, his hands clasped in his lap.

Chris moved so he could look between the front seats, the sunglasses he had won pushed up and out of the way.

A dented, burned sign welcomed them to the wasteland that had haunted so many of their collective dreams.

* * *

_Now entering Raccoon City - Home of Umbrella Pharm._

_Smiles are our currency._

* * *

She had expected a crater.

Instead, it was just a field.

Acres and acres of grassy concrete rubble. Charred bricks. Sparkling glass.

They walked down what had been Main Street; Wesker, Jill, Chris.

Sometimes, they would stop where they thought intersections used to be, stop to recall places, people, or events.

Wesker remembered the second inauguration of Michael Warren as Mayor. He talked about the ceremony, how it all went wrong - Warren ("a sloppy son of a bitch if there ever was one") tripping on his way up to the stage, his inability to give a good speech, and the scissors that wouldn't cut the ribbon.

Chris told them about pounding drinks with Brad at J's Bar, hitting on drunk college girls, getting into off-duty scuffles with local assholes ("I grew beer muscles every night," he said, laughing).

Jill couldn't remember anything but pain and regret and loneliness.

So she cried.

* * *

Wesker walked what was the perimeter of the Arklay Mansion.

Hands in pockets. Strange, hunched posture. Like there was a wind blowing against him.

Jill sat down in the middle.

Chris stood against the car.

Deer grazed in the field, bobbed and darted between trees when Wesker cleared his throat.

"There's a facility under here."

Jill squinted at him. "What? _Really_?"

"Tricell." He stopped, looked into the rustling trees that had grown up from the ruins. Thinking. "Raccoon had been wiped off the map for years... I suggested we build a base beneath. It was small - a fifty man staff. But it was quite functional. We did a lot of preliminary research here, before Africa."

"Why Raccoon?" She asked.

"Precisely because the impossible had already happened. No one would think to look here, in the ruins." He gestured down.

"You lost contact with them then? After the end?"

"Sometime before, actually. And now... I'll never know what occurred."

"Lemme guess. You wanna go down and see." Chris rolled his eyes.

Wesker listened to a bluejay caw. "I believe I have reached the point of letting sleeping dogs lie."

He looked down at Jill. She held her hand out and he helped her up.

She dusted off her jeans and they walked back to the car.

* * *

They decided to camp in Raccoon's Chapin Forest - a place just outside of the city limits that had been spared the bomb treatment all those years ago.

They went down overgrown paths, up trails in the hills, to the falls.

The heat of the summer's midday crushed down on them.

Chris peeled off most of his clothes, heavy with sweat. He left on the shorts and dove into the clear pond.

Jill waited on the edge, unsure.

He splashed her. She gasped and cursed at him.

She began to pull off her shirt. It was caught halfway, under her breasts. She struggled with it, laughing (like dishes breaking).

Birds burst from a bush and up to the tops of the pines around them.

Chris whooped and yelled at her, begging for her to take it all off.

She laughed harder, stuck in her own clothing.

Wesker finally intervened and yanked the shirt over her head. He sighed, smiling, as she stumbled back, unbuttoning her jeans.

Jill left her underwear on.

She eased into the shady pool, where Chris floated on his back, arms spread, like an angel.

She complained loudly about how cold it was.

Wesker looked up.

They followed his gaze to the cliff and the waterfall that cascaded into the little pond.

The water pummeled down, foaming white, rippling out.

Wesker slipped out of his shirt, kicked off his tennis shoes, threw his socks aside.

Barefoot, he started up the ridge.

* * *

She stood on Chris's broad-again shoulders.

Her hands in Wesker's, pulling her up.

She placed her foot on the top of his head.

He smiled and wiggled a little, feeling her toes in his hair.

He boosted her the rest of the way.

Then Wesker grabbed his hand, yanked him up.

* * *

They stood on the precipice, the water roaring beneath them.

Jill was talking and smiling, but he couldn't hear her.

Wesker nodded. He turned and said something to Chris.

Chris couldn't understand him and kept asking him to repeat it.

Jill laughed, the sun streaming through the leaves, a beautiful greeny-gold on her wet hair.

Chris looked over and down, where the crystal waters were breaking below.

It was a long ways to the bottom.

His chest tightened when he looked back at _them_.

His chest tightened, thinking of Wesker's hand around his throat, holding him up as lightning struck the sea.

His chest tightened, thinking of Jill crashing through glass, Wesker tumbling with her.

Everything faded.

Until Jill's hand was on his slick shoulder.

"You ready, partner?" She asked.

Her other hand was in Wesker's, their fingers twined.

It took a few seconds to realize what they were getting ready to do.

He backed away, shaking his head.

"C'mon!" She reached.

He pressed himself against the stone face, suddenly unable to breathe.

Wesker looked back at him.

She called one last time.

Chris watched as they counted to three and then launched themselves off the ledge.

Laughing as they fell.

* * *

He waited, hearing only the roar of the waterfall.

And then he dared to look down.

They were both at the bottom, in the pond.

Smiling at him.

Wesker's white hair plastered to his face.

Jill treading the water.

"Come on, Chris! Jump!" She beckoned.

A siren, singing out for him to dash his brains on the rocks.

"_Don__'__t __you __dare.__"_ Claire was at his side.

"Hurry up!" Jill yelled.

"_You're as good as dead, Chris. She's a whore and he's the Anti-Christ. This isn't any way to live."_

"Hey! Al said he'd catch you!"

Chris looked from Claire to Wesker, who was laughing, devilish. He motioned with both arms: _come __hither_.

"_You want to be dead to me, Chris? 'Cause if you keep pretending with them, you'll be dead to me. I'm warning you."_

"You're not real," he said to her. A plea to himself.

"_No? What have you got without me, huh? What kind of life would you have?"_

He stared into her eyes. His baby sister.

"Sorry, Claire."

And then he jumped.

* * *

Chris plunged into the water.

The air forced from his lungs.

Rushing past his ears, deafening.

He let the current of the falls push him down, then bring him back to the sunlight.

He broke the surface and breathed deeply.

He whipped around when Wesker tapped him.

Jill was kicking up water a few feet away.

Perfectly... alive.

Both of them.

_All_ of them.

Chris looked back to the falls.

The sun everywhere. Gold on everything.

Everything gold.

Claire was gone.

Claire was dead.

Claire wouldn't ever make him feel guilty for living again.

* * *

Behind the curtain of the waterfall, Jill moaned.

Chris nipped under her jaw, kissing her throat, finally finding her.

The sound of their mouths echoed in the little cave.

Wesker's hand wound itself in her hair, guided her back to him, where he left a trail of fire up the side of her neck with his tongue and teeth.

He panted, close to her ear. "Is this what you've wanted? All of these years? To be consumed? Eaten alive by both of us?"

She felt Chris move down, kissing her stomach, her navel, the edge of her panties.

She gasped.

His fingers were pushing up, under the silk. He licked his bottom lip.

Her knees weakened, but Wesker, behind her, held her up.

He whispered against her - promises, _threats_ of what he was going to do to.

All the while, Chris touched and breathed, closer and closer to what ached.

Wesker's grip dug into her arms. The mood was killed as she felt where she would bruise later. She squirmed.

"_Jesus_, Al."

He jerked her against him. She stopped struggling, shocked by his gruffness.

Chris was thrown off balance. He fell back, catching himself, splashing in the shallow water.

"Get up, Redfield." He ordered quietly.

Chris stood.

He inhaled, sharp, when he realized they were not alone.

Dozens of pairs of black eyes. Watching them. Surrounding them.

Closing in.

Climbing down from rock ledges, standing up from crouches, coming from the bowels of the cave and sidling up close along the stone wall.

Jill, frozen, held onto Wesker's shorts, her nails biting through the fabric into her palms.

"Assume a defensive formation. _Now_."

Slowly, they backed up against each other, a wheel of muscle to protect themselves - an old tactical position from their S.T.A.R.S. days.

They looked from faceless form to faceless form.

Closing in.

Silent.

Through the waterfall, several more figures appeared, shadowed by the afternoon sun.

"Do you remember how to fight?" Wesker asked, steady voice. "Do you remember what I taught you?"

He felt Jill nod.

"That's good. Follow my lead."

As he spoke, one of the shadow-men at the front of the cave moved forward.

His mouth fell slack, as if to speak, but then his face peeled open; petals of maw flesh and row upon row of wet barbs.

_Las Plagas._

"Oh fuck, really?" Jill groaned.

"Well, there's your goddamn scientists." Chris mumbled. "Gonna fight our way out, huh Cap'n?"

He looked over his shoulder.

Wesker sneered at him.

The Infected were closing in fast.

"On my count," he said. _ "__One...__"_

"Just like old times, right?" Jill asked.

"_Two..."_

"Same shit, different day." Chris answered.

"_**Three."**_

* * *

_Train roll on many miles from my home,_

_See, I'm riding my blues away._

_Tuesday, you see, she had to be free_

_But somehow I've got to carry on._

_Tuesday's gone with the wind._

_Tuesday's gone with the wind._

_Tuesday's gone with the wind._

_My woman's gone with the wind._

* * *

**I hope you enjoyed Jill's Ending. It's the merriest of the three. I think she deserved something happy (sort of).**

**Anyway, one more chapter to go. Start with Al, end with Al, right?**

**Infinite thanks, as always, to my brilliant co-author, my evil co-conspirator, and my real-life friend Chaed. You are phenomenal and I'm so proud to have written this with you. I can't wait to see you again in January. Hurry up! You bring the D.B. jokes and I'll read spiritedly.**


	31. End No 3

_"As happens sometimes, a moment settled and hovered and remained for much more than a moment. And sound stopped and movement stopped for much, much more than a moment."_

_- Of Mice and Men_

* * *

_July, 2015._

"I know about the two of you."

Jill and Wesker looked up.

She tucked her hair behind an ear, wanted to speak. Didn't know what to say.

"Don't." Chris rubbed his eyes. "Please don't."

They were silent at the table.

"What would you suggest be done now?" Wesker asked.

He sighed. Exhausted. And the tears welled up in his eyes. "I just want to rest. I'm so tired. I'm so tired of fighting."

They watched him.

"You should rest then, Chris," he said. His voice was soft.

Chris put his head down on the table. "Yeah."

Some monsters were too big to fight.

Some problems were made not to be solved.

Sometimes, things went on forever, losing their sting, their venom, after a time.

Chris sniffled.

He could live with the monster of _them_.

He'd lived with much worse.

"We'll all rest," Wesker said. "All of us."

* * *

_January 1, 2100._

The bag was light.

He wouldn't need much now.

He didn't even need the virus anymore.

Her last gift to him - undoing what he'd done to himself.

Wesker tossed everything (some clothes, ammunition) to the surface.

He closed the bunker up carefully.

To leave it open, exposed, felt wrong. It would mean leaving _them_ open, exposed.

And that was too much for him to live with.

Wesker wasn't one for sentiment, but the hatch itself had become a character in his story.

It deserved a proper burial.

* * *

He walked for years.

Perhaps a decade.

He couldn't be sure and didn't want to be anyway.

He walked from one end of it all to the other. And back.

Walked through mountains and forests. Along coasts and rivers. Across deserts and plains.

He made his way down what he believed was central California. It would be his second trip there.

This time felt different though.

The air was different.

It was _all_ different with some intangible possibility.

* * *

A little creek.

Rabbits stopped, watched him. Like wary little stones.

He thought of his favorite Steinbeck.

"_Nobody never gets to heaven, and nobody gets no land."_

His hands itched to hold it again, read it cover to cover.

He would - he would find a copy somewhere, someplace.

He sat down, trying to remember.

A bird trilled in the tree near him.

Loudly.

He tried to remember.

It called wildly.

He tried.

It screamed over him.

He turned and unleashed five shots into the tree with the Samurai Edge.

The bird paused.

And then continued.

Wesker whipped the gun up into the branches.

He watched the bird fly off.

The gun stayed up in the tree though, caught on a limb.

Wesker sighed.

He stood.

And then he smelled them.

They circled.

Out of curiosity alone, he let them take him down.

* * *

_April 28, 2046._

At the age of 71, Chris Redfield died.

It wasn't a hero's death.

He didn't die defending the world, or saving a life.

He died holding her hand with his sworn enemy at his side.

It wasn't a hero's death, but it didn't need to be.

* * *

A funeral pyre burned, curls of smoke echoing into the starless night.

Jill stood by herself on the other side, eternally beautiful, looking like she had the day her body first died - but feeling every bit her real age. She was rubbing her nose, her eyes swollen and red.

As the flames surrounded and then engulfed his body, she disappeared into the darkness - unable to bear witness to that one last loss.

Wesker stayed though.

Watched it burn higher into the sky, reaching out to whatever heaven he was destined for.

As the fire raged, he brought his heels together, straightened his spine, and drew his hand up.

As the fire raged, Albert Wesker saluted Chris Redfield.

* * *

Wesker sat in the dark, cross-legged, yogic. A chain was around his neck, tethering him to the piling of the run-down warehouse.

Outside, he could hear the calls of children, the laughter of these New World people. Through the broken windows, the smoke of a fire floated in, the sickly sweet odor of cooking flesh.

They spoke English. Sometimes broken and mixed with something else. Other times, pure.

It was strange.

A creak, the industrial door opening, the light of the flames silhouetting a person.

She came to him from the shadows, the moon streaming through the jagged glass.

He noticed her bare feet.

She crouched, curious brown eyes. He was stone.

Before him, she laid down a battered plate.

Before him, she offered her portion of the kill.

Her hair was braided back, wispy curls coming loose about her face. She was lean and small. Her hollow stomach a reminder of a difficult life.

"Take it away. I don't want it." He rumbled.

She studied him, sitting back on her heels.

"What are you called?"

"Nothing."

She smiled, her teeth a brilliant white against the shadows. "Your people must have given you a name."

His cold eyes narrowed at her, thought on her. "I have no people." He replied.

She sat down then, knees pulled up.

Wesker was reminded of Jill, on the hood of the Aston Martin, watching the ocean. He swallowed, looked away.

The chain around his throat clanked against the metal of the pole.

"How old are you?"

"Very."

She seemed satisfied with that and moved on.

"You have been here for four days. You do not eat, or sleep."

He didn't respond.

"The Elders call you The Devil," she said. "They are afraid of you."

Wesker turned to her. "Do you believe I'm The Devil?"

She shook her head.

"Well, you're a foolish little beast then."

He went back to watching the moon.

She stayed near him for several minutes and when she went to leave, he grabbed her hand.

She didn't jerk away, or tremble, or wince. She grasped his hand in return.

He shook it slowly. "What do your people call you?"

"Ninti." She watched the strange ritual - hand-shaking.

He let her go and watched her walk away, back into the night, back to her people.

He had considered breaking the chain around his neck and killing them all.

He decided to wait.

She was interesting.

* * *

She came back morning, noon, and night, staying longer every time.

She stopped bringing food on the third day.

* * *

He wrote her name in the dust.

She stared at it. "What does it mean?"

"It's what your people call you."

She traced the letters with her finger. "You should teach me this."

"To read?"

"Yes."

He said nothing, knowing he would not stay long enough.

"The Elders have a book. Only they are permitted to read it."

Wesker frowned. "A book?"

"Yes. It is the _only_ book."

"And these Elders read it? By themselves?" He had a good idea of the title of this book.

She traced her name again. "For as long as any of us can remember, it has been that way. The Elders say that every law comes from the book. Everyone must follow the book."

He watched her. He thought carefully before speaking. "... And who chooses the Elders?"

"Well, they choose each other. Why?"

But then she paused, reflecting on what she'd just said - a new-born thought, a thinking for the first time.

_They choose each other._

Wesker smiled. "What if someone who is not an Elder reads the book? What would happen then?"

"Shh! Bite your tongue!"

"You should steal this book and bring it to me."

She looked shocked. "I could not! It's forbidden! If the Elders knew... if they knew I was even talking about this..."

"Nonsense. Bring me the book."

She glared and shushed him, whispered, "That is wrong."

"Wrong?"

"Yes. It is not allowed. We shouldn't speak on this." She was very nervous with the topic.

"Who says that it is 'wrong'? The Elders? Who appoint themselves?" He raised his eyebrows.

She flinched.

He leaned in so that she could feel his heat, look directly into his primordial eyes.

"Ninti... do you ever wonder if The Elders aren't telling you what's _really_ in the book? Or the book... What if the _book_ is wrong?" He hissed. "I can tell you if the book is wrong. I can read it to you. You need only bring it to me."

She bared her teeth. She was angry. A righteous anger. "Shhhhh... Hush now."

She swiped at the dirt, smearing out her name.

He sat back, staring at her.

He didn't have to say anymore.

The seed was sown.

* * *

The men came in occasionally to stare at him.

Sometimes, when he felt like putting on a show, he would lunge, pretending to be stopped at the end of the chain.

They would scatter, a sea of dark hair, tan skin, fleeing.

When they ran, he would smile.

* * *

"Tell me about the monsters."

He leaned back on the piling. The chain swayed.

"They were called Uroborii. Well, Uroboros. They were like... a mound of black worms. Or... snakes."

She looked at him intently, wanting nothing more than to listen. Innocent.

"They ate. They were uncontrollable. They killed everyone."

"Where did they come from?"

Wesker was careful. "They were created. By a man. An Elder, maybe."

"Why would a man do that?"

He looked at her. He was at a loss. "Perhaps he was unhappy. With the world, the way it was."

"It's very bad now though? Worse than before?"

He looked down. "Yes."

"So... this man was wrong. What was he unhappy with?"

None of his reasons made any sense when he looked into the eyes of that foolish little beast.

He was ashamed.

"I don't know."

* * *

She gnawed on a bone.

"Why do they keep me?" He asked, one knee pulled up.

"They're waiting for a sign."

"A sign?"

"Yes."

"I'd like to speak with your Elders. Can you arrange that?"

"The Elders forbid it."

Wesker looked at her. "Forbid a request to meet with them?"

"No. _I _am forbidden to speak to them. I'm a woman."

His was shocked, tried to hide it.

"I am female. I'm forbidden to speak unless spoken to."

He thought back to every conversation he'd had with her... and indeed, he'd spoken first.

* * *

He listened and saw glimpses.

These people were nomadic.

Clearly patriarchal.

There were a couple hundred, at most.

Regression back to oral language (he reasoned because they were consumed with survival).

No modern tools.

And strangely enough, few weapons.

It was human development in its infancy.

As he sat on the dirty floor, Wesker came to realize that there were no "Chosen". He hadn't reclaimed the earth for superior beings.

All that he had done was hit the reset button on the _homo __sapiens_ species.

* * *

She reached out, fingers grazing his hair.

He pulled back, glaring.

"It is white." She marveled at it. "And your eyes, like suns. I have told the other women about you."

"Did you?"

"Yes. I told them about you. They want to lay with you."

He laughed, loud - like dishes breaking. "Do they?"

She smiled, though she wasn't sure why he found it funny. "They would try to beget a white-haired son with you."

"That would require a miracle..." He looked up and out the broken windows, still smiling.

"Miracle?"

"A wish come true. Something rare." He explained patiently, softly.

She frowned. "How many sons do you have?"

Wesker picked up a pebble, tossed it, watched it skip over the cement floor. "None. I had a daughter."

He thought of Sherry, the last time he'd seen her - Paris.

"She was not my daughter, really. But I raised her as such." He sighed.

"A son is better than a daughter." She said it so naturally. An idea drilled into her from birth.

"_That_ is a human notion, Ninti. One sex is no less valuable than the other. Females, males - it doesn't matter." He bit back, surprising even himself with his defensive tone.

"Well, it is best to have both girls and boys. Of your own blood. You must be laying with dry females."

He remembered Jill then. The feel of cool skin on his.

She was the only one who could put out the fire in him.

Anything but dry.

"No. No, it wasn't her fault." He thought of his sperm, wriggling haplessly in a Petri dish.

"How many females do you have?"

He smiled at her strange ignorance.

He turned thoughtful though. Nostalgic. He decided to be honest. "One."

"One?" She looked hard at him, not understanding.

"You have many men, I take it."

"Many men have _me_. I belong to my people. I am a woman."

He nodded. "Well, I have no people and I will never be with another."

"What is your one woman called? Where is she?"

Wesker's mouth drew into a tight, unreadable line. "Her name is Jill. She passed away."

She repeated the name to herself, memorizing it. Then she asked: "It is common only to have one female, where you're from?"

"Yes."

Ninti frowned too. She was silent for a moment. "What do you call that - one woman, one man?"

He felt a pain in his chest. "Love, I suppose."

* * *

_December 12, 2099._

"Are you very afraid?" He whispered to her, in his arms.

"No."

"You are more brave than anyone I have met in my life." He told her the truth.

She smiled, weak. "I can't see."

"Soon you won't be able to hear. Then you will slip away."

Jill was loose in his lap. He was cradling her in the shadows.

She was 123 years old.

She looked 32.

But her cells knew better, no matter what the antibodies in her system told them.

She was dying.

"You won't... you can't bring me back?"

"No." He fought. He lost. A tear ran down his cheek.

She couldn't see though. She'd never know. No one would ever know. That gave him comfort.

"You are stronger than me, Jill. You would only eradicate my virus."

"It's okay," she said. "It's okay."

He shook his head. "You were the only one. My only success."

She patted his arm, weakly. "You're gonna be very bored when I'm gone, Al. No one to pick on."

His eyes burned so with those infernal tears. "Yes. So very bored."

"Do you still hate me? Passionately?" She almost laughed.

He smiled, another tear carving down his face. "Oh, passionately. Yes. _Always_, Jill."

She coughed, her lungs failing.

"And do you hate me, Ms. Valentine? Do you think me the most vile, miserable creature on Earth?"

"I've always... hated you. More than anyone else." She whispered, a whistle between each word. A rattle.

The tears fell steadily then.

"I'm going to go now, Al."

He gritted his teeth. "Are you sure? Can't you fight, Jill? Just a while longer?"

But she was already fading.

She died in his arms that day, an hour later.

She died in his hands.

Not the hands of a god.

Not the hands of a man.

The hands of some wretched thing stuck in-between.

Stuck in-between like a naked stag hanging from a tree.

* * *

On the tenth day, she came to him very late at night, and very bruised.

A swollen black and blue ring around her eye. An abrasion at her mouth.

He stared, eyes glowing. "What have they done to you?"

She sat slowly, easing down, in pain. "I have grown disobedient."

"How so?"

"I am too used to you. I am too used to speaking with men. I questioned a man. I was punished."

He didn't speak on it, disgust choking him.

This was not how the New World was supposed to be.

He grew furious. "Do you know that you are with child again?"

He could smell her pregnancy. Her men had beaten her while she carried.

Her hand went to her stomach. She inhaled sharply.

"There is more to life than this. You do not have to _breed_ for these men." He was close to her, hissing as the chain clanged against the piling. "You do not have to _rut _on command. You are better than an animal..."

"... How?" Her voice was shaky, uneven.

"Tomorrow night, bring me what they've stolen from me."

She hesitated.

"Don't be afraid, Ninti. I'm going to give you everything you've ever wanted."

* * *

The next day, Wesker had visions - day dreams, hallucinations.

He remembered the last card - The Tower. The ruinous fall of man.

He remembered Chris's words about religious zealots, headed for California.

He remembered his own thirst for power, his desire so overwhelming that nothing else mattered.

He remembered burning up with it, the power keeping him warm at night when no one else could stand to be in his bed.

And then Jill.

Madame Delassixe had been right.

Albert Wesker had died.

He'd died a thousand fiery deaths.

* * *

That night, Wesker lifted the chain from his neck. Free from his false prison.

She slipped into his darkness, handing him the clothes they'd taken from him the first day of his captivity. The clothes they had been praying on, mesmerized by.

He pulled on the jeans, then the t-shirt.

She watched him in the waning moon. Bare feet.

He held out his hand to her.

She laced her fingers with his and followed him into the night.

* * *

He came back down The Tree.

She stood to the side.

He handed her the Samurai Edge, barrel down.

She took it, uneasy.

He put his hand on top of hers. Reassurance.

"I'm going to teach you to use this. It's a gun. It must be handled carefully."

She turned the metal piece over in the moonlight. "What does a gun do?"

"Many things. It brings power. And death."

He paused, watching her, eyes glowing red.

He clicked the safety off.

"It will teach you everything the men don't want you to know."

* * *

He taught her that night, under cover of the clouds and the moon.

He moved her feet apart, adjusted her, helped her as he had Jill a lifetime ago.

She learned quickly.

He felt her breath quicken and her body tense.

She learned.

And best of all... she liked it.

* * *

"I'm leaving, Ninti."

She looked at him, the gun in her hand at her side.

_It__'__s __right __for __her_, he thought.

"Where will you go?"

"Anywhere...," he said. "Nowhere."

He held out his hand again.

She shook it, recalling the ritual at their first meeting.

He walked through the brush, away from her.

"I know now what your people call you." She yelled after him. "You're in the book."

Wesker turned, listening. "The Elders' book?"

"Yes."

"Oh? And what does their book name me?"

"_God_."

His heart all but stopped. She waited for him to say something.

There was a veil between them then.

"No," he said quietly.

"So you _are_ The Devil."

He smiled. "Not quite."

"What then? What will I tell my sons and daughters of the white-haired man? What will I call you?"

Wesker thought.

"If you must call me something... call me The Serpent."

* * *

_But little Mouse, you are not alone,_

_In proving foresight may be vein:_

_The best laid schemes of mice and men_

_Go often askew,_

_And leave us nothing but grief and pain,_

_For promised joy!_

_Still you are blessed, compared to me!_

_The present only touches you:_

_But oh! I backward cast my eye,_

_Oh prospects dreary!_

_And forward, though I cannot see,_

_I guess and fear._

_- To A Mouse, on Turning Up in Her Nest with the Plough_

* * *

**_And... that's it for The Serpent._**

**_Thank you to everyone for reading and to those who reviewed. We can't believe how big it got. Way more than we could have asked for._**

**_If you don't want the story to end, it doesn't have to:_**

**_The Garden, by sad little tiger - 11/22/11_**


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